


Demon Commodore

by DeathknightQ



Series: Royal Navy of the Caribbean [3]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dubious Consent, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, War, cannot possibly trigger warn hard enough for that, pairings mostly included for filtering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathknightQ/pseuds/DeathknightQ
Summary: The Caribbean is consumed by total war. The members of the British Royal Navy must summon every ounce of courage and cunning they possess to defeat an enemy more powerful than any they have seen before.
Relationships: Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner, Gillette/James Norrington, James Norrington/Jack Sparrow, Murtogg/OFC
Series: Royal Navy of the Caribbean [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006929
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For all of you who remember this from 17 years ago when it was originally posted, I am so sorry for leaving y'all hanging. All I can say is that DMC shot me point-blank. I still haven't watched AWE all the way through. I gave the Mouse a little bit of trust and came back for OST. That ended with BOTH the remaining Navy characters dead and not even for good purpose. 
> 
> But you know what, in the last year Authorial Intent has been proven to be a complete and utter fallacy on every possible level (you know who I'm talking about). Death of the Author all the way, let's finish this.

Zayin Notusson was not a happy man. As he was also one of the most powerful mages in Makai, it was with good reason that his servants avoided his ill temper. Zayin was not above venting his frustrations on the first person he saw. Fortunately for his minions, the first person Zayin met was the cause of his unhappiness.

"Hello, Gremtogg," Zayin purred, his hypnotic gray eyes glittering. "Have you heard the news?"

Gremtogg, a spirit creature of transparent substance and nebulous form, hovered before Zayin's desk. The desk was covered with maps and sheets, as well as a few spell-casting implements. Behind the desk floated a large, glowing orange sphere. It cast a fire-like glow over the small obsidian-dark office.

"Yes, my Master. The Fox Commodore is dead, as is his Captain. The demon woman is in exile. My host, Commodore Clark, is also dead, and Harfeyen will see to it that the magic seer hangs for killing him." Gremtogg's whispery voice was full of triumph. The necromantic shade that had used Commodore Clark as both puppet and mask rested content in the knowledge that he had succeeded in all that his fearsome master had lain before him. Gremtogg could not fathom why Zayin was unhappy. He foolishly concluded that it was someone else's problem.

"No," Zayin contradicted, his voice a sensual growl -- the voice of a predator scenting blood. "The Fox Commodore is quite alive, as is Captain Gillette and the magic seer. The demon woman has been taken back into the fold. Harfeyen is very much dead. And -- this is your worst failure -- the Fox Commodore is now a demon himself. I sent you to Port Royal to break the man's spirit or a discreet assassination. One kitsune I can handle with ease, but two--" Zayin bit off the words. He glared malevolently at his minion. The nebulous form curled inward.

"I am sorry, my Master, but Norrington's will is strong--"

"Yes, it is," Zayin purred, his voice dangerously calm. "And that is your failure as well." The mage raised his hand. "I recant the magic that bought you from the Kingdom of Death. May Lord Death do with you as he will, Gremtogg who was once Cynric the Saxon." The black shade dissipated with a shriek. Zayin rested his chin on folded hands. He glanced down at the Caribbean map on his desk, which was neatly marked with arrows and symbols. It was a battle plan; chess on the high seas. The mage looked up, gazing at his door without seeing it.

His previous plan had hinged upon Norrington's absence -- the man was a threat, even magic-less and mortal. Now that he was a demon... brute strength was no longer an option. 

The map burned, curling and twisting in the flames that singed neither the stone desk nor the other papers. A new one appeared in its place. In the sphere's Dantean light, the magician began charting a new plan.


	2. Surprise is on Our Side

"You go through ships like some men go through hats," Admiral Gloucester commented, taking a seat behind Norrington's desk. Commodore Norrington, his ears hidden in his wig and his tail hidden in specially-tailored breeches, stood silently in military posture. "First the _Interceptor_ to Sparrow -- who you have yet to apprehend -- now the _Dauntless_ and the _Intrepid_ , which while still technically intact is far too damaged to ever be battle-ready again. What do you have to say for yourself?" 

"Nothing, sir." 

"Nothing? No defense of your actions?" 

"My reports make the circumstances of each loss clear, sir." 

"Yes, yes they do," Gloucester sighed, leaning back in the chair. "Frankly, it’s a miracle you were able to preserve as much of your crew and even one ship alive as you did." Gloucester sighed again. "For as regularly as you take prizes, even with three ships gone we're still so far in the black you could burn another five before we'd break even. That is not a challenge, nor is it permission. We have thus decided that an inquiry is unnecessary. Instead, we will give you another pair of ships and pray that Luck is more of a lady to you than she has been." 

"Two ships?" Norrington said, a smile breaking past his reserve. 

"Yes, two ships. Port Royal has become something of a locus for pirate activity; perhaps because they all want to be the ones to take the 'Fox Commodore' down, perhaps because of the thriving business in the area. We don't know why, only that the other detachments are bored to tears whilst you are up to your eyes. Therefore, we're giving you Harfeyen's ship, since he won't be needing it, and the ship that was destined for Montego Bay. Marks will have to make do with Pierce's old ship." Gloucester handed Norrington the papers. "Be careful with them, this time." 

"Yes, sir," Norrington said. Gloucester departed. Norrington looked down, opening the papers for the _Stargazer_. She was a newly refitted man-o'-war, and she came fully crewed. Her personnel added to the pitiful remains of his two crews left him with a half-ship of reserve personnel. The Commodore knew he'd need them. 

A knock sounded at the door. 

"Come in," Norrington called, opening the second packet. 

"So, are you to be courts-martialed or given a ship?" Groves asked, stepping inside. Gillette walked in behind him, his head still at a forty-five degree tilt. 

"Two ships," Norrington said. "The _Surprise_ and the _Stargazer_." 

Groves let out a whoop. Gillette restrained himself to a pleased laugh. 

"A Ship of the Line and a Brigantine," he gloated. "Strength and speed. Take that, Sparrow!" 

"Andrew," Groves said, "you really need to rise above this Jack Sparrow obsession of yours. We're facing the impending destruction of the Barrier. Captain Sparrow is the least of our worries." 

"I am not obsessed. He's a filthy miscreant that needs to be hung." 

"He hasn't committed a single act of piracy since he came into possession of the Isla del Meurta treasure. I don't think he can be classified as dangerous. From what Mrs. Turner tells me, all Sparrow and his crew do is explore -- where do you think the Turners get those exotic baubles they decorate their parlor with?" Norrington said, filing his command papers away. "Though the greatest of annoyances, Sparrow is the least of our worries. What is the greatest of our worries is how to convince our new crews that there is magic and that they need to keep quiet about Shinarashi -- and myself." 

Gillette stilled, as did Groves. The new crews had not seen Barbossa nor fought his men. They had no cause to believe in magic, and no base of loyalty towards Norrington. 

"They'll never believe it till they see it," Groves finally said. "We'll just all have to keep mum about the magic until we run into a Makai. After that, they'll have to see the practicality of the drills. As for you and Shinarashi... I think we should wait on telling them about your transformation until they've been through a few battles under your charge. Being treated by a demon is a lot different than following one; if they are to respect you, they'll have to think of you in human terms first." 

"I don't like the idea of running headlong into battle with a crew that has no reason not to panic," Norrington said. 

"Then split the crews," Gillette said. "Use half the new men for the reserve, instead of the old hands. At least then about half the crew on both ships will be stable." 

"Don't forget," Groves said, "you're the Fox Commodore. They've already heard wonderful stories of what you've done -- you're practically a legend. That will buy us considerably more leeway than if you didn't have such a sobriquet and reputation." 

"I think you're quite exaggerating," Norrington said. 

"Really? Let's make a wager on it, then. I'll bet you five quid that those crews are drinking their home ports dry right now -- especially the officers -- in celebration of being put under the Fox Commodore's command." 

"I second that bet," Gillette said promptly. 

"Fine. I'll dine well on the ten," Norrington said. "Dismissed. I've got crew rosters to make. You two will be the ones to inform the men that they will be responsible for seeing to it the new crewmen do not get us killed whilst they panic." 

"Aye, sir," Gillette said. "They won't be disappointed, I assure you. There's nothing the men like more than being able to lord something over a fellow seaman." 

"Don't be swotty," Norrington commented. "You didn't seem to enjoy it when Mrs. Turner rubbed your face in how wrong you were." Gillette deflated, and left the room. Groves paused for a moment, watching Norrington retrieve pens and parchment to draw up the new lists. He debated whether or not to tell his commander the truth about Gillette. Deciding that that was a too disloyal, Groves turned and followed his Captain out.

* * *

Shinarashi was awakened by a rain of pebbles on the woven trap-door that was the entrance to her home. The demon woman reached for her wooden blade. None of her crew-mates knocked in such a fashion. Rising slowly, Shinarashi padded across the floor as another hail of stones struck the underbelly of her house. Any last traces of grogginess faded -- even Crewman Chester, who was forever running into things, had better aim than that. The kitsune peered through the gaps in the rushes, and was astounded to find that the thrower was a rich society patron. The kitsune did not recognize her from any of the functions she'd been forced to attend, but that was not unusual. Decked in carbon-copy outfits, wigs, and cloying perfumes, the wealthy all looked alike to Shinarashi most of the time. 

The rich woman, who looked to be in her mid-twenties, bent and picked up a rock the size of her fist and chucked it at Shinarashi's home. It thudded dully on the trunk of the tree. The woman huffed, wiping her dirty hands on her gown, a stiff blue dress with white flowers. Her blonde hair, once perfectly done-up, was now marred by straggling locks torn loose by exertion. Her dress sported several tears from the rain forest branches. Shinarashi's eyes narrowed in curiosity. What could bring a society fluff-ball like this to her door despite the dangers to her looks and reputation, to say nothing of her life? 

The kitsune quickly pulled her hair up to disguise her ears, double-checked to insure that her tail was safely tucked away in her hakama, and opened the door. She looked down through the opening. 

"Good day," she said calmly, as if she received wealthy interlopers regularly. 

"Er, hello," the woman called. She braced her hands on her hips. The woman's voice was soft -- it was hard to shout on the 1/4-lung's worth of air allowed by her fashionable tight-lacing. "Are you the witch?" 

Shinarashi raised her eyebrows and refrained from saying, "no -- a demon." Instead, she replied as Norrington had taught her to reply. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"The witch who heals men at the Fort and fights with the Fox Commodore. Is that you?" 

"I am the surgeon of the _Dauntless_ under the command of Commodore Norrington; that is true. But I am no witch." Shinarashi's reply was cautious. It was not uncommon at social gatherings for Shinarashi to be asked by debutantes if she did in fact heal Norrington's men by means of witchcraft. Each of these queries was duly followed by a request for a love potion, or similar foolishness. However, never before had one of the pretty young things asked her if she fought. Nor had they risked so much for the asking. 

"But you do fight? Like the men do?" the woman asked. Shinarashi's ears twisted forward beneath her hair. 

"No. The men use a cutlass or some other single-handed steel blade, along with firearms. I use a wooden two-handed blade known as a bokuto." The bokuto, unlike other wooden swords, was tempered and charmed until it was only slightly weaker than steel. It was a trade-off -- a bokuto was by necessity a dull-bladed weapon, but it could be incorporated into Shinarashi's shape-shifting magic whereas a metal blade could not. Not that Shinarashi mentioned this to the noblewoman. 

"But the Fox Commodore lets you fight, different weapon or no?" 

"Yes, he does." 

"Why?" 

Shinarashi sniffed the air delicately before replying. There was no smell of deceit wafting on the light breeze, just desperation. Her curiosity getting the better of her caution, Shinarashi lowered the ladder that served as her front steps. 

"Please, grab hold of the ladder. I will pull you up so that we may discuss this more civilly." The woman did as she was directed, voicing polite thanks. Shinarashi feigned effort at the task, though in fact she had the strength of nearly ten men -- something a few cock-sure and sexually desperate sailors had learned the hard way. "Would you like some tea?" 

"Er, yes, please," the woman said. "My name is Lydia Evans. It's a pleasure to meet you." Lydia set herself to the task of setting her appearance to order. There was little that could be done save removing the plant matter -- both dress and coiffure were ruined. 

"I am Shinarashi Hito," the demon woman replied, remembering to reverse her name. "It is interesting to make your acquaintance, Evans-san." 

"San?" Miss Evans replied. 

"It’s an honorific. It means much the same as your 'Miss' or 'Mister.'" Shinarashi set the tea water to boil. "Now, why this interest in my combat skills?" 

"Your skills I'm not interested in nearly as much as your position," Miss Evans explained. Shinarashi demonstrated the use of her table. The woman knelt with difficulty, but sighed in relief once she'd folded her legs beneath her. "I've heard so many rumors... I want to know the facts." 

"What rumors have you heard, if I may ask without offense?" 

"If I may say without offense," Miss Evans countered. Shinarashi nodded. "They say that you worship the Devil, and that Satan darkened the Fox Commodore's mind to let you serve on his ship. They say you heal the men by means of dark magics, and that you avoid Church because you justly fear the wrath of God. They say that you're an abomination sent to lead our souls astray. They say that you're the Fox Commodore's paramour, that you earned your rank in his bed and nothing more. They say that you're not the true genius behind the healing of the Commodore's men, that a man named Benjamin Murtogg is. And they say that you are really a man who chooses to play the part of a woman so that your lover will not be hung for sodomy." Shinarashi whistled. 

Some of the rumors Gillette had told her himself. The witchcraft and dark magic were new, but not entirely unexpected, she supposed. The demon woman set a cup of tea before her guest, taking another for herself. "Sugar or milk?" 

"Neither, please," Miss Evans declined. Shinarashi poured milk in her tea, taking a sip as she framed her reply. 

"The truth, I'm afraid, is not nearly so spectacular as a war between the Dark One and Christ over the souls of Port Royal," she said, treading the thin line between truth and lie that was as close to deceit as she could come. "Not all cultures are as England's. In Japan, before the Shogunate took power, it was common practice for women to be warriors and doctors. Even still, some women fight and heal despite the Shogun's commands." Shinarashi took another sip of tea as she chose her words. "I was, you could say, marooned here. The Commodore took me in and upon seeing my skills both he and Captain Gillette pressed me into service." 

"They can't use Impressment on a woman!" Miss Evans exclaimed, setting down her cup in surprise. 

"Actually, as the Captain has informed me, there is no such specification. What the Crown needs, it shall have. The Crown needed a surgeon, a good surgeon, not the medical-school rejects that normally turn to Navy service. It needed the sanitation and medicines of my people. As I had no other home nor vocation, I willingly accepted the invitation." 

Miss Evans was silent. Then, slowly, she asked, "what sort of man is this Commodore Norrington, that he would do such a thing?" 

"The Commodore is unlike any other man in Port Royal, I would dare say in the entire Navy." Which was completely true: there were no other male kitsune in all of Ningenkai that Shinarashi was aware of. 

"Truly, a remarkable man," Miss Evans said. "They say he even caught the _Black Pearl_ and sent the Captain -- a man so evil Hell itself spat him out -- right back where he belonged." 

"Actually, it was Jack Sparrow who killed Captain Barbossa. The Commodore did, however, apprehend and hang the crew. The ship itself was -- and you'll pardon the turn of phrase -- pirated by Sparrow's men." 

"Oh." Miss Evans looked quite disappointed. "But the other stories are true?" 

"More or less. There are quite a few salient facts missing in most versions, but that is to be expected. However, those stories of the Commodore's moral fiber are quite accurate. Now, would you permit me to ask you a question?" 

"It's only fair," Miss Evans said. She sipped her tea nervously. 

"Why is a noblewoman like you so interested in the truth behind a 'savage' such as myself? Or the workings of the Navy's Impressment? So much so that you would virtually destroy your reputation by coming here?" 

"I don't have one," Miss Evans said, looking down at her cup. "I've got nothing to lose by talking to you and, perhaps, everything to gain. You're not really familiar with our culture, not if you don't know who I am and why I'm here." Shinarashi shook her head. "Six months ago, while I was in England, I was kidnapped. They... they tried taking their pleasure with me, but I fought them off. Mostly with bites and such.

"Anyway, I was recovered. And even though my virtue is still technically intact, the rest of society inferred the worst. They assumed that I'd either been raped or given myself over to keep from being killed. I said I hadn't, but the menfolk and most of the ladies assumed I'd lied. No decent man would marry me, so my father sent me here, to the backwoods of the Empire." Miss Evans gulped her tea. "My uncle will marry me off to the wealthiest boor who'll take me. And only a boor would have a woman who'd been 'ruined.'" 

"That is why Governor Swann allowed his daughter to marry a blacksmith. Once the Commodore stood aside, any hope of a noble marriage had ended," Shinarashi said, the attitudes and motivations of the civilian men she dealt with at last coming into focus. If purity -- that is, proven virginity and subservience -- were the hallmarks of an agreeable woman, then it was little wonder her own virtue was so little esteemed. 

"He had enough money and power to buy her respectability," Miss Evans said bitterly. "Mine didn't care enough to." 

"I see now why you said you have nothing to lose. But why everything to gain?" 

"I was hoping you'd teach me to fight properly, not just with scratches and such. My uncle will protest, and he may even chuck me out, but that's better than having some ugly wine cask's children for the rest of my life. If he does I can sell my jewels and live on that for a while. Afterward... well, if I'm good enough, I was hoping that perhaps the Commodore might press me, too." 

"I cannot vouch for what the Commodore will or will not do," Shinarashi said, "but there are private vessels that will not turn skill away because of gender. Sparrow's first mate is a woman. A Negro woman, no less." 

"I won't be a pirate!" Miss Evans stated. 

"Sparrow is pirate no longer. He is an explorer, more than anything else." 

“A merchant or an explorer would be fine." 

"It would not be easy. The days are long, starting before sunrise and ending after dark. Sometimes it's the other way around. The work is all physical labor, and there are no luxuries. Your space would be a hammock and a trunk, and the long hair would have to be constantly bound up or else shorn to no longer than the shoulder-blades, like men's. Your diet would be stale water, salt meat, insects, dried vegetables, and whatever scraps the sea threw your way. You would live from one wind to the next, from one storm to the next, and from one battle to the next. You could be killed. Your comrades could be killed. Or, perhaps, you may be crippled. You could lose an arm, a leg, a hand, a nose, or an eye.

“The discipline is harsh, and no allowance would be made for your gender. You could be flogged, keelhauled, tied to the rigging, or hung. There are scurvy, rickets, and a host of other diseases you could fall prey to, to say nothing of the sexually transmitted ones. The threat of rape would be constant, and even if you kept your virtue constantly intact, you would still be treated as a whore. Said virtue would have to be won one broken bone and bloodied sailor at a time. There will be no fine wines, rich silks, or genteel company. There will only be your fellow crew-mates, and the knowledge that any slip on your part could cost them their lives. And there would be your commander, who must be obeyed as if he were a god." Shinarashi regarded the woman steadily. She was pale. "The path you dream of is far harder than that of a housewife to a drunkard. Even should he beat you, a sailor's life is far more treacherous." 

"But I'd have my pride," she said faintly. 

Shinarashi leaned back, considering. The woman had a fire that was out-of-kilter with her society, and she suffered the out-casting that James, Andrew, Benjamin, Elizabeth Turner, and she herself faced in varying degrees for the same 'flaw.' However, unlike the five of them, she wasn't a proven blade. 

Yet. The seeds were there; they were far less buried than the seeds that had resided so deeply hidden in her own vengeful spirit. 

And, in the end, she was a woman who strove to rise above the pettiness around her, a woman who no matter what path she chose would need to defend herself from assault. She was asking for help. 

_This is stupider than anything I have yet done,_ Shinarashi thought. 

"I will teach you to defend yourself," she said to Miss Evans. "But it will not be easy. If you do as I say and prove that you can, indeed, face the path before you... I will teach you what I know of seamanship. But that is only if you prove that you are willing to work." 

A broad grin split the woman's features. 

"I won't disappoint you, I promise!" 

"When your shoulders feel as if they are made of stone and your hands bleed from the forming calluses, we shall see," Shinarashi said sternly. "Find a regular time that you may be absent unnoticed from your Uncle's dwelling. I will make you proper wear. Each day at that time, meet me here. If I am at sea, then continue to steal away from your Uncle's dwelling, and use the time to practice what I have already taught you." Miss Evans nodded eagerly. "And from this time forward, you will address me as Hito-sensei." 

"Hito-sensei?" Miss Evans asked, puzzled. 

"It means, Evans-san, that I am your teacher."


	3. Adaptations

James Norrington was no stranger to uncertainty. Change had been a part of his life since before he could remember. His father's temperament was more volatile than the sea. He could go from a stern disciplinarian to a cruel giant between one glass and the next. During his childhood, James had learned well the fine art of sneaking into a room unnoticed, gauging how much drink had been consumed, and altering his personality accordingly. 

Then, later, Paul Painswick had entered his life. Paul had brought James's first taste of the venom that consumed his father when he was home -- and maybe, in more subtle ways, even when he wasn't. 

Norrington closed his eyes, remembering those horrid eight years. Sitting on a rock in the Port Royal harbor beneath the stone fort that was his home, his face warmed by the Caribbean sun and his uniform ruffles stirred by the tropical breeze, the bitter taste of the home-brewed wine was still in his mouth. Wine, women, and song had filled his adolescence. He'd thought it had filled it, anyway. In truth, he'd only been exchanging one soulless existence for another. 

Finally, unable to stomach the thought of secondary schooling and a profession befitting his name, and finished with the ineffectual prodding of his mother to dry out and settle down, he had purchased a commission as a Midshipman. He'd been foolish enough to believe that if he left his father's house, his problems would stay there. Perhaps part of him had believed following in father's footsteps would change the man's opinion. Foolish, either way. He'd been pampered and spoiled from his infancy onward; he'd been in no way prepared for the harsh discipline of sea life. He'd understood his studies perfectly well -- he'd always had the makings of an excellent scholar -- but when it came to obedience... Not getting his way at all had had the same effect as getting it all the time.

And such scoundrels he'd made for friends! William Clark topped the list, but he was by no means the only thieving liar James had commingled with. Indeed, Norrington was forced to admit, he'd been one himself. Half-hearted in his drills and utterly nonchalant about his duties. If not for one, single twist of fate, he'd doubtless still be a waste of a midshipman at this very moment.

If not for Virginia Colony. If not for one small port town named New Camelot. The civilian woman had hid behind him because he'd worn a uniform. Her attacker, for reasons known only to himself, had assumed Norrington would protect her. Norrington had been panicked and stupid, desperately wishing he'd paid more attention at drill -- and losing ground quickly. 

Norrington rubbed his cravat, remembering how close he'd come to decapitation. He remembered watching his opponent raise his axe, seeing what looked to be a window of opportunity, and taking that desperate stab. He remembered the sickly warm feeling of blood on his hands, and the wonderful feeling of being alive. He remembered the woman's thanks and that she'd called him a hero.

Upon his release from the infirmary, James had thrown away his alcohol. He'd devoted himself to his studies, to his drills, and to the concepts his superiors had voiced. He had at last found what he'd been looking for, and he pursued it with a zeal any cleric would envy.

No, James Norrington was no stranger to personal change. He knew very well what it was like to look in the mirror, remember who used to look back at you, and wonder where that man had gone.

Thus it was that on the afternoon after posting the new crew rosters, the Fox Commodore had left his office and descended the rocky not-quite-path beneath the Fort walls to his favored ledge. He did not have time to swim – or more to the point, to dry off afterward -- but he removed his shoes and stockings to dangle his feet in the water. His crew would not interrupt such a pursuit with anything short of an emergency. It was an unspoken rule of Fort Charles Norrington wasn’t supposed to know about, but did anyway: if the Commodore's relaxing, get out of the way because if Gillette thinks you've made him stop, there'd be Hell to pay. Norrington smiled softly. Perhaps an overzealous keeper like Andrew was the Universe's punishment for his life of vice.

If that were true, Norrington wondered what Gillette had done to deserve _him_. Gillette wasn’t much taken with vice. He did not carouse nor gamble, other than the occasional friendly game among the officers. He was no more fond of the whores or the ladies than Norrington. The Commodore wondered if the reasons were the same. If they were, it would certainly explain how quickly his Lieutenant had taken to Shinarashi's transformation. 

The Commodore braced his weight on his hands, leaning forward to look through the clear green water to the sandy bottom. It was a pity Shinarashi had no interest in men. If she were a trifle less frigid, Gillette might do more than escort his Doctor to the market. That something would save Gillette's reputation from Kurtz’s slander, save him from the debutantes he so abhorred, and would provide the snarky Captain a companion with an equal distaste for society's regulations and opinions of respectability. 

Norrington frowned as a fish swam across his view. They were a smart match, a fine match... a hopeless match. Gillette was too smart to act when there was no hope of reciprocation -- unlike his commander. And Shinarashi... Gillette's coyness didn't spark her fire, nor did Murtogg's love-struck devotion. She didn't even notice. The demon woman could lecture all day on the mating dance of whales, but give her a man madly, passionately in love with her and another that should be--!

Norrington smiled, imagining the scene that would take place if Gillette _did_ manage more than silent longing. He could see it: Gillette shouting imprecations in French, Murtogg stammering utterly ineffectual insults but still putting up a fight for Shinarashi's affections, and in the background, her hands on her hips, would be the Doctor. He knew exactly what she'd shriek at her suitors: "What in Inari's name is _wrong_ with you Occidentals?"

For all her people's much-vaunted inability to lie, Shinarashi could be surprisingly hypocritical. Her biggest complaint about the culture she found herself in was intolerance, yet she herself refused to see anything commendable about Western living. Not that she'd admit to that prejudice -- she'd simply maintain the unapproachable superiority of her Eastern ways.

Norrington reached up and hesitantly scratched his new ears, laid flat against his skull beneath his wig. He hadn't quite adapted to them yet, nor his other appendage. It was still something of a shock to feel the brush of fur against his leg in bed each morning. Of a greater consternation were the new smells and sounds. His hearing was that of a fox, which had made it nearly impossible to sleep for the first two weeks. It had been most disconcerting to be awakened by Governor Swann’s dinner guests knocking three houses away, to say nothing of actually hearing what people said about him behind closed doors.

And the smells! Dear God, the first time he’d walked into the stables he’d vomited the entire contents of his stomach. His nose now sent him a cacophony of information every second, smells that human language had no name for. He now knew who had been in any one spot within the last two days just by the scent-residues, and if the scent was less than twelve hours old he could even tell you how they had been feeling. He could smell diseases, metals, and the musk animals left to mark their territories.

It was maddening still, even after a month of adaptation.

It made him want to drink. The craving was stronger now, his last taste having been so recent, as he’d known it would be. Somethings had not changed, and simply had to be endured.

Stranger than the physical changes were the impressions that belonged to no sense. He could feel the pull of the tides, the sway of the currents, and hear the songs of creatures so deep in the water that man had never seen them. The speech of dolphins was no mystery to him, nor was the cry of sea birds. The schools of fish tingled at the edges of his brain, urging him to join their formations, and the sharks dared him to play their shark-games. The pull of the sea was nearly overwhelming, staying on land was a constant struggle. Indeed, sometimes it felt like the rocks themselves were trying to push him off. His skin felt hopelessly dry, his form tomblike in its constriction.

Norrington closed his eyes, remembering the rush of freedom when, after three weeks of trying, he had at last learned to change into fox-form. To be on four legs instead of two, to be able to run, jump, and climb without the slightest hamper to his movement! Without thought or caution he had run nearly the entire circuit of Port Royal, down every street and up every tree, shrilly crying his freedom at the moon. Shinarashi had had to nearly beat him senseless to get him to turn back. In fact, in a dizzying rush of power, he had very nearly changed _her_ form.

A splash beside him drew his attention. He looked over in time to see Shinarashi pull herself up onto the rock next to him, soaking wet from her swim. It was interesting -- when she dissolved herself into water and reformed, she was perfectly dry, but when she swam she got just as drenched as anyone else.

“Water can't get wet, Norrington-sama,” she said, reading his face to determine his thoughts. “The state changes with the form.”

“So a wet fox would be a wet man?”

“Exactly.”

“Ah.” Norrington said nothing, not completely certain how to proceed. Finally he settled on asking her how she felt.

“Better with sleep. I talked with your maids and some of the city whores early this afternoon. Nearly every woman in Port Royal had grogginess with headache this morning, and erotic dreams last night.”

“What does that mean?” Norrington asked, frowning. Was it some new Makai stirring up trouble?

“It means, James-sama, that your stunt last night gave almost every woman in town a slight case of fox-madness.” Shinarashi’s brows were furrowed, and there were frown lines at the corners of her mouth.

“I thought you said that was impossible,” Norrington said slowly.

“For a natural-born kitsune, it is. We can only drain energy from one being at a time. But you aren't a natural-born kitsune; there is human left in you yet. And as a human you were magically tied to this town in a way no one else is. You were -- are -- also tied to the Navy. I think… I think that is how you were able to summon the storm that killed Harfeyen without draining the sea to death. You were drawing from the Navy, the entire Navy, at the time. And last night, you were drawing on all the female inhabitants at once. That’s why no one died from fueling your spells.”

“Ah,” Norrington said again, flushing. “I'd post a mass-apology, but I don't think that would be wise.”

“No, it wouldn't,” Shinarashi said. An awkward silence filled the air. Despite the hours upon hours Shinarashi had spent teaching Norrington to manage his demon abilities, there was still the specter of betrayal between them.

It was so illogical - he instantly knew languages, but had to learn shape-shifting. He could instinctively control the sea, but had to work at controlling his fox-fire. He couldn’t even manage the simplest illusion yet.

"Why isn't everything instant?” he asked aloud.

“Because, James-sama, you're a _fox_ -demon. The animal part is just as strong as the spirit-half. Fox kits are taught to hunt by their mothers, even though they instinctively know to seek their den in danger.”

Norrington nodded. He watched the ocean, the smooth blue perfection of it. He wanted to lose himself in it, to dissolve into the waves and never return. 

He’d once thought losing his humanity would drown him. He’d had no idea.

* * *

Commodore Norrington was not the only one watching the sea that evening. On the other side of the Fort, leaning against the wall and staring out to the South, sat a lowly marine with nothing left to do. 

Peter Mullroy was at his wits' end. His world was falling apart, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. From the first moment he'd joined the marines, Benjamin Murtogg had been his companion and charge. Peter had been the gentle and somewhat daft man's guardian and advisor, forever pulling his head out of the clouds and back down to earth. Except that now the clouds were where everyone belonged and Mullroy was hopelessly chained to the ground.

Murtogg had outgrown his guardianship; it was as simple as that. Benjamin had the Commodore's ear, the start of a trade, a power Mullroy couldn't share, and had somewhere found the backbone to do Clark in. Mullroy picked up a rock and hurled it into the sea. Benjamin had killed a man in cold blood, and hadn't been the same since. It wasn't just a lunatic Commodore the marine had killed that day, it had been the child inside him. Murtogg no longer backed down from Clarence White and his friends; no longer played childish games with the boys on the street; no longer blushed when the whores made catcalls.

Mullroy hurled another rock, bile rising in the back of his throat. Instead of deriding Murtogg for his pacifistic and teetotaling ways, the other marines now showed him the deference due an officer. Benjamin wasn't the Mad Marine anymore; he was surgeon's mate, the Commodore's magic seer, and a man not to be crossed. Truth be told, Benjamin didn't have to worry about White anymore, because White gave him a wide berth.

And Mullroy was still just Mullroy. The Commodore didn't even know his name -- well, that wasn't strictly true, Norrington knew everyone's name. But the Fox Commodore summoned Benjamin by his Christian name, and Mullroy was still Mr. Mullroy.

"I'm not jealous," Peter muttered to the reproachful waves. "So, he's got position. Wasn't I always telling him to show some spine and get somewhere?"

The waves whispered against the shore, and Peter chucked another rock. That was the hardest rub of all. All of Murtogg's power stemmed from those times he had ignored Peter's advice in favor of following his own instincts. His own plans.

Like shooting Clark. Mullroy had followed Benjamin's lead. So had everyone else, even the midshipmen. Benjamin had said "mutiny" and everyone had followed suit.

He, Peter Mullroy, the brains of the pair, the spine and the leader, had followed Benjamin Murtogg because Murtogg had known what to do and had the guts to do it when Mullroy had not. Just like Murtogg had known about the _Pearl_ and about that God-damned demon woman.

"It's all her bloody fault anyway," Mullroy told the waves bitterly. "If she hadn't made him bloody well fall in love with her and filled his head with stupid Oriental nonsense, none of this would have happened. He'd still be the grunt he is."

_The grunt he is, or the grunt you are?_

"Get out of my head, you stupid bitch," Mullroy said, even though chances were good it was his conscience talking instead of a demon. "You filthy, cowing, _whore_."

"You know, the sea is hard enough to deal with without swearing at it," said a voice from over Mullroy's shoulder. The voice was calm, completely without stammer. Mullroy looked to his left, watching Murtogg sit next to him. He eyed the man's neatly-trimmed beard, another one of his changes.

"It wasn't the sea I was swearing at."

"This isn't her fault," Murtogg said, his gaze steady.

"The Hell it isn't." Mullroy chucked another rock into the waves. "Who are you, anyway? You're not Benjamin Murtogg anymore, that's certain."

"Yes, I am. Just not the one I was six months ago. Everyone in this place is different except you; you're the only one that hasn't changed. I'm not saying that's bad... I'm just saying it is." Murtogg looked away from his partner. They both watched the setting sun for a moment.

"Who in God's name do you think you are, acting like some sort of wise man to me -- to _me_?" Mullroy finally growled. "I know you better than that."

"Clark said the same thing to the Commodore," Murtogg said softly. "I'm not saying I'm anything. But I can see things that no one else can. I'm a better physician than I am marine. And I started a mutiny, put a gun to my superior's face, and pulled the trigger. I had his blood on my hands. He screamed in my mind when he died, and I saw his... his soul whoosh out of him. All right? That's not something you can just forget and pretend it never happened. I can't stop what's happening, Peter, even though I'd love to."

"Sod off," Peter replied. Murtogg bowed his head, pressing his lips together until they turned white. It was a gesture absorbed from Norrington, and Mullroy called him on it.

"Goodbye, Peter," Benjamin said. He rose, dusted off his trousers, and left his friend to his jealousy.

* * *

"I'm sorry for ruffling your lace, Princess," William Turner shouted, slamming the door shut behind him. Elizabeth charged through it. 

"'Princess?'" She demanded. "And just who saved whose arse in the cave?"

The honeymoon was over, the bloom of infatuation had faded, and the Turners were having a fight. Their rose-colored affection had lasted a year longer than most, but reality had at last set in. Like all married couples, the Turners were adapting. In the meantime, they were peeling the paint off the walls and dredging up past history.

"If it hadn't been for me, you'd've died long before then," Will countered.

"And without me, you'd be hung!"

"Oh, good heavens, Governor's Daughter," Will said, bowing and scraping in Jack Sparrow's swishy, mocking manner. "Forgive me for forgetting for an instant that I owed you my life. Please, forgive this humble peasant his rough ways."

"I have never pulled rank on you, and you know it!" Elizabeth screeched.

"Then what makes you think you can start now?" Will shouted, jabbing his fist in the air.

"Asking you to puta lid on the chamber pot so it doesn't smell up the house isn't pulling rank," his wife stated stubbornly, crossing her arms. "It's common sense."

"I don't smell anything," Will stated.

"You're not upset about the chamber pot at all, are you? You're just angry because Doctor Hito suggested that you might be the problem."

Will glared. The 'problem' was that after a little over a year of marriage, Elizabeth still had her courses each month. The city's doctors assured the couple that Elizabeth was to blame, stating that her independence and book-reading were stealing blood from her ovaries to fuel her unnaturally-active brain. Will had swallowed the line, which was well in keeping with "modern" science, and suggested that Elizabeth exchange Shakespeare for needlework until they had their first child. That had been the source of their first knock-down-drag-out, you-sleep-in-the-forge-and-don't-touch-me fight.

Elizabeth hadn't believed the surgeons at all. After banishing Will to the forge, she had written to Norrington, inviting him tea. Over a cup of Darjeeling she then asked Norrington if his cheif surgeon might consent to examine her. Norrington had dutifully relayed the request. 

“I studied surgery at University, not reproduction,” Shinarashi had cautioned Elizabeth. “If it’s anything more complicated then a dietary deficiency I’m not going to be able to help.” Still, Elizabeth had insisted. Shinarashi had asked endless questions of an infinitely personal nature, poked and prodded, and then declared she could find nothing wrong with Elizabeth. She had then looked at Will and told him to hop up on the table.

The insinuation that he might be infertile had not been well-received. Will had dug in his heels and refused to budge: he refused to lid the pot, and Elizabeth was wholly to blame for not getting pregnant.

"I am not the problem," Will declared.

"Yes, you are." With that Elizabeth swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her hard enough to knock several paintings off the wall.


	4. New Tricks

Shinarashi knew that she should not have been so pleased to find Evans-san waiting at the base of her tree. The human woman was, for all her zeal, completely inept and unprepared. Her fashionably-laced stays had done Inari-knew-what to her internal organs, her pampered upbringing had dwarfed her muscles, and her creams and lotions had eradicated any hope of calluses. Trying to overcome the physical obstacles alone was a challenge, to say nothing of the possibly-insurmountable mental difficulties. Noblewomen were bred to submissiveness, which wasn't a trait that helped one eviscerate one's enemy.

Indeed, this entire scheme was a fool's errand.

Nevertheless, Shinarashi was more than gratified to find that after three days of silence her student had shown at least that tiny bit of ingenuity it took to escape her uncle's dwelling.

"Four o'clock," Lydia said, grinning. "He has tea with Mr. Kurtz, and my maid is more than happy to leave me to my stitching while she meets her paramour in the back garden. It's only a little over an hour, two at most, but it is time."

"Good," Shinarashi said with a reserved smile -- James's smile. "I have your fighting wear prepared." Shinarashi scrambled up the trunk of her tree, opened her door, and let down her ladder. Shinarashi again lifted her guest through the door; it was more likely than not that Lydia would be unable to climb a glorified ratline on her own. Once inside, Shinarashi presented her student with a crisp blue kimono and black hakama.

"It's... it's only two layers," Lydia stammered, blushing. Shinarashi's heart sank and her ears drooped. Perhaps this was more than a fool's errand. Perhaps it was a hopeless cause.

_So were you, once. The Commodore didn't give up on you when you hid in a box and refused to be seen, now did he?_ She told herself. Squaring her ears, Shinarashi explained the reasons Lydia felt faint and clumsy in her formal wear, and why Lydia should wear her stays loose as peasant women did.

"Besides," Shinarashi finished, "no one will see you here save myself."

Lydia acquiesced with some trepidation. However, she had to admit, the oriental wear was far more comfortable even if it did make her look as dumpy as a little French horse.

"Now, to begin," Shinarashi said. She then led the noblewoman through a set of stretches that would both improve her flexibility and warm her muscles. Afterwards, she handed Lydia a pair of what looked to be over-large pestles.

"What are these?" Lydia asked. "Aren't you supposed to teach me to use a sword?"

Shinarashi suppressed a frown, deciding how to best explain resistance training. She finally settled on the direct method. She took the weights from Lydia and handed the woman her bokuto. Lydia could barely lift it. The ironwood sword's tip hung forlornly an inch from the floor.

"Try to swing it," Shinarashi instructed. Two futile attempts later, Lydia handed back the blade and accepted the weights.

"These are light weights," the demon woman explained. "You need to master these and two more sets before your arms will be ready to handle a metal one." Lydia's shoulders slumped. She hadn't expected fighting to be so much work.

"The exercises I teach you combine all the component movements of all Hiten Ryuu sword strokes. Once these moves are in your muscle memory, it will be easier -- though by no means simple -- to learn the attacks themselves," Shinarashi said. "I will also show you ways to use your own body weight to increase muscle strength. Then you can practice whenever you have a free moment." Lydia did the exercises she was shown, pausing when her arms shook. While her arms rested, she did bends and other moves designed to strengthen her legs. Then, as the last forty-five minutes of the lesson drew close, Shinarashi led her student on a jog to increase her lung capacity. Lydia whined some, until Shinarashi pointed out that an enemy would be no gentler. Then the noblewoman complained in her mind, but did not speak the words aloud.

After what seemed like an eternity of torment, Lydia took a sponge bath, changed back into her constricting Western dress, and departed.

Shinarashi watched her leave, unable to suppress the thought that it was unlikely Lydia would return. The thought was more disturbing than it should have been.

* * *

Zachariah Newman wasn't keen on his new superiors. Granted, he was a common marine and didn't have much choice in the matter, but he could still have opinions. After all, he was in the Cafe Siete and there anyone could have any opinion they liked, so long as said anybody didn't break the furniture over it. The Cafe Siete wasn't a cafe at all, but a public house that catered to the soldiers, seamen, and occasionally the officers of the Fort, as well as some Port Royal civilians. It was, in fact, the very public house that the Fox Commodore had met his famed familiar. 

Zachariah looked over the crowd, grinning. That fact hadn't passed Old Macarro by, nor had the potential in it. The beer mug that hung over the Cafe Siete's sign had sported a carved and painted silver fox two days after the shrewd Jamaican heard his daughter remark that she'd seen the Commodore take a fox that looked just like Pet home from the pub one rainy night. A chance remark overheard from the Commodore to his Lieutenant had confirmed the story, which was now told to every newcomer who entered. The Cafe Siete had always done a brisk business, but now it was booming. Every table was occupied by at least one person, and many more stood by the purely decorative fireplace, listening to whatever Naval personnel had been offered drink or coin to tell a story of the Fox Commodore. Right now it was McKennaly, telling the tale of the _Queen Anne_ \-- minus Areen Stormwind and her invisibility spells. He did, however, include the lightning bolts courtesy of a fictitious storm.

The marine leaned back, watching the bustling serving girls and listening to the cacophonous combination of talk and laughter, interspersed with the harsh words of fights that would soon be taken outside. Groups of men throwing dice and playing cards filled the room's corners, travelers dominated the fireplace, and the Fort men and Port Royal citizens mingled in the center. A small lad of eight ran by carrying a marine's buckle, followed by three other boys, a girl, and an angry marine. Zachariah offered a toast as his comrade ran out the door. Zachariah took a swig of his rum, his eyes falling upon the most disturbing member of McKennaly's audience: Steven Pellew, third lieutenant of Zachariah's new ship. All the old hands at Fort Charles knew the reasons for the mix-and-match, of course -- it was London to a brick that all this fresh meat the Admiralty had sent Iron Guts'd panic first sign of magic. Somebody on ship besides Iron Guts and his seconds would have to keep their heads.

Zachariah knew the reasons, but that didn't mean he liked the arrangement.

"I see the Whirlpool's at it early," said a voice coarsened by tobacco and ale. Andrew Lincoln, a seaman, sat down at Zachariah's table. As a courtesy, he handed the marine a fresh mug of rum. Zachariah accepted it with nod.

"Everything goes in, but nothing comes out," he said in reply, stating the reason for Pellew's nickname. "He's been here for an hour all right, listenin' to the Show. Not sayin' a word, not movin' a muscle. Tryin' to figure what secret we've been keeping."

Lincoln snorted. "He'll figure out right quick. And prob'ly wet himself in the doing." Both men laughed. The Whirlpool turned and regarded them. His small green eyes were sober and watchful. He raised an eyebrow, sensing he was being talked about, then returned his attention to McKennaly's story.

"Bloody creepy how he does that," Zachariah commented.

"Amen. But Iron Guts'll put him in his place neat and proper," Lincoln said with a savage satisfaction. Though the rest of the Caribbean called Norrington by his sobriquet, the men of Fort Charles called him by the names he'd earned during the first eight years he'd led them. It was a proprietary gesture that the other Caribbean detachments both understood and envied. A spike of noise arose from one of the dice tables. Macarro's hulking frame waded through the crowd like a knife through butter. He grabbed two men from the dice table and unceremoniously chucked them out on the street. Dusting his hands, the imposing man stood aside as a silver-and-black fox entered the pub.

Lincoln nudged his companion. It wasn't the simulacrum -- not that anyone outside the old hands could tell the difference.

Macarro nodded to the fox, procured some fruit from the kitchen, and put it down by the kitchen door. Pet swished her tail once, rubbing against Macarro's leg in a plainly understood gesture of thanks, then settled down to munch on her food.

"Waitin' for Murtogg, I'll wager," Zachariah commented.

"Check the Whirlpool," Lincoln muttered behind his mug. Zachariah did so surreptitiously. Pellew was watching the fox, his eyes a mixture of sobriety and hunger.

"Hear he's deep into foxhuntin'," Zachariah said. "One of the marines from the _Surprise_ said so; a good chap. It's drivin' th' Whirlpool and Schwansee crazy, he said, not being able to go after Pet."

Pet had noticed she was being watched, and sat up straight. She regarded Pellew steadily.

"Drivin' some of the big wigs nutters, too," Lincoln said. Pet stood, walked over to Pellew, and sat just out of reach. She then began cleaning herself slowly. It was a blatant taunt that drew more laughter from Lincoln and Zachariah, as well as those Fort Charles men who had been watching. Pellew's eyebrows drew together in irritation. He stood and left the Cafe Siete, aware that he had come out the loser against a fox, but not quite certain how.

* * *

"Why's he splitting the crews?" 

It was a question that had been asked by every seaman, officer, and idler aboard the _Surprise_. When the _Stargazer_ arrived, her crew also asked the question. And they all received the same answers: "It's better not to ask what the Fox Commodore does, just follow his lead and you'll come out all right"; "Sod off, wanker"; and the ever popular, "You'll see," which was always followed by a wicked and smug laugh. It was maddening.

Finally, three days after the change of command ceremony, the officers of both the _Surprise_ and the _Stargazer_ confronted their commander, begging to know why nearly half of each ship's crew had been replaced with _Dauntless_ staff, and why the _Stargazer's_ captain had been sent away so that Gillette might have the _Stargazer_.

"Gentlemen," Norrington said sternly, "I would be happy to tell you if I thought you would believe me. Such as it is, you will have to wait and see. Dismissed."

And with that, the officers had had no choice but to turn around and leave the office, wondering why, with all the gossip floating about, no one had thought to mention the man was mad.

"Maybe it's just favoritism," Eric Roth, previously second lieutenant of the _Surprise_ , said softly. The frown lines at the corner of his mouth and between his eyes showed that he didn't believe the suggestion any more than anyone else did. Daniel Schwansee, the first lieutenant of the _Surprise_ , shook his head.

"If that were the case, why the mystery?" he asked. "And why send away his own surgeon, Wellington, so that he could keep Doc Worley?"

"But on the other hand," offered the _Stargazer_ 's First Lieutenant, Cotton Pullings, "he sent Killick away in favor of a _woman_."

"We can discuss it all we want," snapped Nathaniel Mather, who served as Pullings' second, "but we won't find a pattern. There is none. It's completely erratic."

The four of them clustered into Schwansee's new quarters in the Fort. The two senior lieutenants sat on the bed, everyone else sat on the small floor. Though only Schwansee and Pullings had met before, the officers of both ships had fused together, excluding the secretive _Dauntless_ staff. Though they had drank themselves sick upon first hearing they were to serve under the illustrious Fox Commodore, now they had their doubts. Well, all of them but Steven Pellew. Though only a third lieutenant, his crew-mates had long ago learned to trust his powers of observation. Despite every Naval tradition -- all of which dictated a superior was to feel anything but respect for a subordinate -- both Roth and Schwansee trusted the man's observations oftentimes more than they trusted their own.

"If he's erratic, there's a reason for it," Pellew said softly. "Look at his strategies. None of them are conventional or even in many cases sane. But they work." Pellew paused, idly toying with Schwansee's blanket in thought. "And the crew aren't acting as if they're favored. They're acting like they know something important that we don't."

"What's to know?" Mather scoffed. His views of third lieutenants were far more conventional than the _Surprise_ 's staff. Pullings nodded, also sharing the traditional view.

"What do you mean?" Schwansee asked his pet brain, ignoring Pullings and his second. Pellew frowned. He ceased fidgeting with the blanket, his dark green eyes shadowed.

"I don't know what it is," he said finally. "Only that it's big. And that everyone in the Fort is in on it." Another pause. "Whatever it is has also completely unhinged the natural order here in the Fort. That marine -- what is his name? -- has as much stature as the most senior lieutenant. A woman, not even an English woman, has even more stature. Even their rations are different. It's all so abnormal, too abnormal for one man's unconventionality to cause. Whatever is going on in this Fort is going on for a reason."

"If it were that big, we'd have heard about it," Roth said.

"Not necessarily," Schwansee murmured. "The Admiralty has kept secrets from itself before. This could even be a secret kept from the Admiralty." The five men were silent at the implications of the statement.

"The Fox Commodore's right, then," Pullings muttered. "All that's left is the waiting."

The sound of running feet and shouts filtered through the solid door.

"And it seems we won't have to wait long."

* * *

The scramble to quarters was slow. The Fort Charles crew would have been flogged for such guess-and-check sluggishness. But then, up until almost two weeks ago, the Commodore's men had been a cohesive fighting unit, used to both each other and their leader. Now, however, instead of one unit he had two, and one was forever getting in the way of the other. 

_That'll be over after this_ , Norrington comforted himself as he watched Zachariah Newman collide with the _Surprise_ 's sailing master. Newman uttered a curt warning, swiping his wolfsbane up off the deck and tucking it back into his ammunition pouch. The sailing master halted to stare at the marine, obviously trying to fathom the reason for keeping a smelly flower in one's ammunitions case.

"Move it along!" Norrington called. The sailing master jerked, then resumed the rush across the deck Newman had interrupted. _Drills. The whole crew together, in lore and in fighting. And I shall have to have more silver bullets made._ He'd have to buy the silver this time. Norrington added up the cost in his head. On his own coin, he could afford seven bullets per man, and an additional thirty for Murtogg, who more often than not was the only one who could see what they fought. That wasn't enough.

"There'll be a round of drills for this. We should be at sea by now!" Norrington bellowed. Muttered oaths provided a counterpoint to the shouts and calls of readying for battle.

"Sir," Schwansee said, approaching from behind. "We'll be well within standard time." Norrington's lips thinned even further; they had almost disappeared from his face.

"I know that, Mr. Schwansee," Norrington said, forcing himself not to sound as irritated as he felt. "However, I expect better than standard." _I expect enough to defeat things that are faster than human._

"With all due respect, sir," Schwansee ploughed on, "they're only pirates."

_No, they're not._ He could feel it in his gut, a fluttering tingle of warning. This was no false alarm that had the Montego Bay fires burning, no misread standard.

"Mr. Schwansee," Norrington said. His tenor voice was clipped as, at last, the men all reached their posts and the _Surprise_ set sail. "The pirates of the Caribbean are quite unlike anything you have yet faced. If you maintain your current attitude, you will face the same end Admiral Harfeyen did."

"Admiral Harfeyen died in a hurricane," Schwansee said slowly.

Norrington hummed noncommittally, unable to speak the lie he'd signed his name to.

"Be that what it may," Norrington said cautiously. Finding he could speak that half-truth, he continued, "his failure to understand the full depths of his situation cost him his life.”

"Yes, sir," Schwansee muttered. Norrington left his new First Lieutenant and approached Groves, who by virtue of his seniority ranked only the number two slot on the _Surprise_.

"That was pathetic," Groves said softly by way of greeting. "Twelve minutes, fifteen seconds." The average times for both the _Dauntless_ and _Intrepid_ had been eight minutes thirty seconds. "If we make it through this without getting killed, it'll be a miracle." Norrington nodded. He glanced around the deck. Pellew was eavesdropping again, damn the man. He contemplated having him flogged for it, but ultimately decided that would be counterproductive. Groves had also noticed Pellew's attention. Whatever he would have said next died on his tongue.

"Send Murtogg aloft," Norrington ordered. "Doctor Hito with him. I want to know what we're facing before we get there." A series of Midshipmen relayed his orders. Soon, both his demon and his seer were atop the main mast. After several seconds the reply came sounding down the rigging.

"Roger on the larboard side," Schwansee relayed.

"And...?" Norrington prompted.

"Just female hysterics, sir," Schwansee said, waving a hand in dismissal.

"What did she say?" The old hands around Norrington shrank back. The Fox Commodore was dangerously close to losing his temper. Schwansee straightened, put out that his estimation of Shinarashi's emotional stability was ignored.

"Hippocampi, sir," Schwansee grated. "She claims she smelled them."

Norrington took a deep breath through his nose. Over the salt tang of the waves he smelled horses, fish, and kelp.

"Thank you, Mr. Schwansee. Did she recommend a course of action? In a direct quote, if you please."

"'Regular shot should suffice.'"

"Thank you, Mr. Schwansee." He absently scratched the simulacrum's ears. Groves called out Shinarashi's specifications. The old hands loaded their guns with standard musket balls, and the new hands wondered what other sort of shot there was.

With a soft thud, Shinarashi landed next to her Commodore. Over the course of her voyage, she had become fairly efficient in the ropes, though in a game of Skylark she could barely catch even the slowest midshipman.

"The scales are impervious to most impacts," she said, ignoring Schwansee. "Aim for the brain or heart of the horse parts. It's unusual, though, that hippocampi should be in the service of pirates. They aren't known for their aggression."

"There are abnormalities in every breed,” Norrington said while Schwansee and Pellew gaped. “If there is nothing else, please get below, Doctor." Shinarashi saluted in farewell, then she and Murtogg returned to the cockpit.

"Aim for the horses," Groves bellowed, to the extreme puzzlement of the new crew.

"Sir," Schwansee protested. "Certainly you're not taking this seriously!"

"As I said, Mr. Schwansee," Norrington said, slitting his eyes in concentration, "the pirates of the Caribbean are unlike anything you have yet faced." The roar of canon fire was just audible. "Run out the guns," Norrington ordered. "Aim for the pirate vessel, dismasting her is our first priority. The marines will handle the hippocampi." Again his orders were relayed. And again they were greeted with two-thirds puzzlement and one-third eagerness.

Schwansee and Pellew stood close together, staring at each other in dismay. Mutiny was a capital crime. Without the ship's surgeon declaring the commander unfit, any attempt to remove the Fox Commodore from command was just that. No matter how clearly mad the man was.

The _Surprise_ and _Stargazer_ cleared the last outcropping, and the men of both ships received the shock of their lives. For out of the water leaped fully-grown hippocampi, beating the ships' hulls with their hooves and shattering the skulls of men that fell overboard. Worse still were the hippocampi that had crawled up on deck. Even as their dorsal spines tore both men and rigging to shreds, the flailing tails held men captive in a boa-like grasp. The pirates, if that they were, fired dark masses of energy from their muskets. One landed a lucky shot. The unfortunate marine shuddered, engulfed in purple electricity, then dropped. His body smoked faintly.

"Open fire," Norrington bellowed. "Boarders, ready your hooks!"

There was only one ship, but Norrington's two vessels could scarce believe their eyes. Slowly, so slowly, they drew alongside. Each vessel fired one broadside in the time in took the pirates to fire two. Norrington and Gillette drew the ships close, hooking yard-arm to yard-arm with the pirate vessel, crushing hippocampi between hulls. The _Justinian_ , Montego Bay's only vessel, looked on in helpless amazement -- the hippocampi had destroyed her rudder while her crew had gawked, then the pirates had circled her, firing at will. Norrington's men were not taken in. Even as the crew stared and startled and sluggishly boarded Mullroy and White defended the _Surprise_ and _Stargazer_ s' rudders.

Most of the boarders floundered, forgetting Shinarashi's words and aiming for the fish-like tails. The musket shot ricocheted dangerously off the scales. The razor tines and encircling coils claimed ten men in as many seconds. The enchanted musket shot of the pirates claimed fifteen more.

_Drills_ , a small voice in Norrington noted as his men dropped around him, or were flung about as they gasped for air. _Drills day and night. Drills until they drop. Elizabeth Turner is a better sailor than this._ The only thing that held Norrington back from dousing the horse-fish in fox-fire was Groves's accurate estimation that if the men found out he was a demon at the same time they discovered magic, they'd never give him their loyalty. That, and Norrington's aim was essentially nonexistent.

"Aim for the horse parts!" Norrington bellowed. He fired his pistol, a shot to the brain stilling the hippocampi that held Pellew in his grasp. Norrington picked up the gasping Lieutenant as he passed, hauling the man to his feet. "Never let them see you falter." 

Norrington drew his blade, grabbed a rope, and swung. He landed in the middle of the pirate firing squad. He swung his blade in a circling arc. A few of the pirates dropped their muskets to draw their swords, the rest stumbled and pitched under the roll of the ship and the jostling collision of the sword-fight in their midst. As Norrington planned, his men rushed in behind him, turning an execution into a melee. Muskets were useless at such close range, the pirates had as much chance of hitting each other as they did the Navy men. With shot that killed on impact, it was too great a risk to take.

An arc of green caught his eye. Norrington ducked as a hippocampus's tail whistled by his ear. A harsh cry sounded behind him and blood sprayed the nape of his neck. The Commodore ignored it. The simulacrum, which had been clinging to his shoulders, leapt forward to pluck out a hippocampus' eye. Norrington had no real attachment to the simulacrum, and ignored it as well. All he paid attention to was the fight in front of him and the battle around him.

"Take the quarterdeck!" he shouted as a robed figure appeared behind the wheel. "Get that blasted mage!" The mage, however, had prepared for this. The shot bounced harmlessly off his skin. The mage began chanting in Latin. Norrington's men stumbled, reaching for their throats as the spell began to close off their tracheas. Suddenly, however, the chanting stopped. Which was no surprise, really. It's quite difficult to chant when you’d been shot.

Norrington didn't stop to question his good fortune, or why that shot should succeed, when others failed. He merely pressed forward, leading his still too-slow men to the quarterdeck. Norrington took a spine to the meat of his left shoulder, and separated the hippocampus' head from its neck in retribution. The screams of the dying filled his ears, urging him and Newman onward to the quarterdeck. Another singing arc of his blade, and he crossed swords with the pirate captain. Though Norrington did not know it, his eyes had shifted color in the battle. Instead of sea-green, they were a dangerous gold. The pirate captain looked from those gold eyes to the black-and-silver standard waving from the _Surprise_ 's mainmast, and dropped his blade.

"We surrender, we surrender!" the captain shouted. The other pirates stilled, or else shot themselves in the head rather than face the noose. The hippocampi, however, had a different reaction. They blinked, shook their heads, and whinnied in a most piteous fashion. The whinnies became croons as they nuzzled their dead, then howled their grief and -- if Norrington was not much mistaken -- their confusion. Something clicked in Norrington's brain.

"Hippocampi aren't known for their aggression," Shinarashi had said. Not naturally. Unnaturally, however...

"Send for Doctor Hito," Norrington commanded, "and take these men into custody. Handsomely, now, Mr. Pellew!" But Pellew didn't respond, staring blindly at the grieving hippocampi. Eric Roth had picked up a pirate musket. After the mage's death, both shot and firearm had turned to powder. Roth sifted the ash from one hand to the other. Norrington looked to his ship. Schwansee stood motionless and pale. The crewmen gawked, muttered, sobbed, or cursed. Some did all four. Norrington turned around to examine the _Stargazer_. Gillette was using the master's rattan to prod his crew into numb activity. The _Justinian_ was in the worse shape of all -- both Captain and crew were gathered at the starboard scuppers, completely ignorant of the _Justinian_ 's drift.

"Mr. Tull," Norrington shouted, adjusting his orders, "take these pirates into custody. Mr. Newman, bring me Doctor Hito. Mr. Groves, take a boat to the _Justinian_ and take her in hand. Borrow Gillette's methods if you have to." A chorus of "aye, aye, Commodore" met his words. Norrington walked to the mage's corpse. He searched the body for any signs of identification. All he found were spell ingredients. Norrington turned the body over, probing the wound that killed him. The shot was silver. "Mr. LeHah," the Commodore bellowed, "take this body down to the cockpit. We'll see if Doctor Hito can identify him later." The slithering LeHah obeyed, drafting one of the new marines to help him. LeHah had to literally kick the man out of his stupor. Norrington exhaled sharply through his nose. This was a disaster.

"My crew took undead skeletons in stride," Norrington grumbled peevishly. No, that was no way to think. They were all his crew now. Even the prejudiced Schwansee and insipid Pullings.

"You wished to see me, Norrington-sama?" Shinarashi asked from behind him.

"Yes, yes," Norrington sighed. "Can you talk to them?"

"The crew or the hippocampi?"

"The hippocampi," Norrington specified. "See if you can find out what's going on." Shinarashi cocked her head.

"Though the mortal tongues are inborn for kitsune, the immortal ones must be learned. I don't speak hippocampi, but I might be able to find a common language somewhere in the group. I might not."

"Do your best, Doctor, that's all I can ask." Shinarashi nodded and walked over to the clustered group of horse-fish. Norrington walked amongst his crew, giving simple orders in small words. After half an hour, a shaken Midshipman whose name Norrington did not yet know approached and saluted.

"Doctor Hito's compliments, sir," he stammered. "She-- she wants to see you on the forecastle deck, sir." Norrington nodded absently and crossed the vessel. His mind crammed with plans, procedures, and the knowledge that somehow he was going to have to make the senseless make sense. The adrenaline of battle had faded, leaving him treading in its wake.

"Norrington- _sama_ ," Shinarashi said in greeting. "The hippocampi were enslaved by the mage. They remember nothing of him or his mission." She looked sympathetically at the hippocampi, who were no longer wailing but huddled together in a forlorn lump. One hippocampus stood separate, clearly the spokesman. He was a magnificent palimino with trout-like scales. "One moment they were chasing dolphins in Makai, the next they were dying in Ningenkai."

"Can they return?" Norrington asked. If they couldn't... just what he needed. More strays.

"Yes, sir. However, they refuse."

"What?" Norrington interjected, certain he had misheard. Standing with rigid discipline, Shinarashi's brows drew together, the very picture of a lieutenant about to give his captain some very unwelcome news.

"They refuse. The hippocampi feel responsible for the casualties they wreaked. They will not return home until they have made amends."

"Tell them to go home, then," Norrington said, exasperation making his voice sharp. What possible use could he have for horse-fish with what appeared to be a very dim view of killing?

Shinarashi turned to the spokesman and began whistling in harsh, strident tones. The spokesman then turned his back on her to whinny at his fellows. The huddle conferred, then the spokesman turned back to Shinarashi and whistled in the same manner. The Doctor turned to her Commodore.

"They thank you for your generous offer," she said hesitatingly. "But it is a matter of honor to them that they repay you for the unjust murder of your men. They will not leave until they have paid the debt to their satisfaction."

"I suppose killing pirates is out?" Norrington said. Shinarashi nodded. "Tell them I'll think about it."

Shinarashi relayed his request, then reported that the hippocampi would return in a week's time to hear his reply.

"They expect you to kill them: soul for soul," she said as the hippocampi departed.

"Absolutely not," Norrington snapped. "They didn't do what they did voluntarily."

"I said as much," Shinarashi replied gently. "Now let me take a look at that shoulder." She pressed her commander onto a barrel. She had strips of cloth tucked into her belt for ease of access. She pulled some free and carefully wrapped them around both the spine and his shoulder itself. She wrapped more around his forearm and over his clavicle to form a sling. "This will do to be going on with, though do come and see me when the worst of the mess is cleaned." Norrington grunted noncommittally.

"The butcher's bill?"

"Last I was in the cockpit, 13." Shinarashi's face was drawn and tense, but not nearly so much as Norrington's. No one looking at him now would guess him a year younger than forty.

"Then return there," Norrington ordered wearily. Shinarashi nodded.

"Try to get something to eat, James- _sama_ ," she said softly before leaving him. "I'll send a powder monkey up with some coffee."

"Doctor?" Norrington said. Shinarashi halted. "Thank you." The demon woman bowed, then hastened to her post. The Commodore looked around the pirate ship. Content that things were proceeding as they should, he headed for the gangplank to return to the _Surprise_ and the catastrophe that doubtless awaited him there.


	5. Regroup

Norrington returned to his ship to find a most pleasant surprise: Andrew Lincoln and Midshipman Daniels had taken over the ship. The command staff had been too shocked to make any sort of resistance, and so things were proceeding as well as could be expected. Judging by the activity aboard the _Justinian_ and _Stargazer_ , Groves and Gillette had had much the same success. Good. He had a good, reliable crew. Half of them, anyway. Norrington suppressed a sigh. The _Justinian_ , however, was another matter; neither Norrington's ship nor his crew, and yet suddenly involved in the supernatural. How was he to explain this to them? To anyone?

Even more worrisome was that Montego Bay had been attacked at all. Up until now, the Makai had only involved themselves in Port Royal affairs. The civilian ships saw very little, nothing that they couldn't think of a "logical" explanation for as they fled. Now... Norrington looked at the people gathered at the shore. Now it wasn't just his little city he had to protect. It was Montego Bay and... and he didn't even know where. Would the Makai stay in Jamaican waters, or spread as far as Nassau? Or the Colonies? Lord knew there was enough trouble on that meddlesome continent without magic.

Norrington repressed another sigh as he began crossing the deck to Midshipman Daniels. It had been so easy to forget in the day-to-day bustle that the Barrier was collapsing. If it did, the entire world would be engulfed in the magic. Would everyone react as his crew had? He doubted it. The capacity for stupidity brought on by panic was fathomless. There'd be witch hunts, charlatans, people running back to the Catholic Church in droves -- he didn't fancy living in any of that. Nor did he fancy the thought of how many innocents would be trampled in the fracas. They had to patch the hole made by Barbossa's men, if there was a way.

If. The cold truth was that they were for all intents and purposes dependent on the mages who had abandoned Ningenkai centuries ago. And all Gods help them if the mages decided they'd made a mistake.

"Situation report," Norrington said crisply. He listened as Daniels told him what had occurred in his absence, but his greater portion of his mind was occupied with the pressing question of what to do next. He had to prepare the other Caribbean detachments, that was certain. Some of the outposts were three days' away, there was no way Norrington's men could mount a rescue in time should something malevolent strike. Nor could he allow another disaster like this morning. All he needed was a way to prove that he wasn't mad.

And then it struck him. He'd prove magic to the commanders and crew of the other detachments and he'd get satisfy the hippocampi in one fell stroke.

"Excellent work, Mr. Daniels," he said, smiling and turning his attention back to the immediate future. "You did the right thing. Now let's see if we can get these ships docked. Captain Marks will doubtless have questions."

Norrington was wrong in that assumption. The new leader of Montego Bay did not have questions. He had one question.

"Norrington, what the Hell is going on here?"

It wasn't the respect Norrington's rank deserved. However, Captain Marks was known for being a plain-spoken man. Therefore, after having the living shit scared out of him by creatures he had heretofore _known_ to be false, and after seeing his men killed by crackling balls of lightning, he felt justified in swearing at a nobleman. More than justified. Maybe if he was lucky, said nobleman would hang him for insubordination and the Captain wouldn't have to face what was coming.

"If you would be so kind to assemble your crew and the townspeople in the town square, I will make everything clear," Norrington said crisply. "I'm not fond of repeating myself, so best tell everyone at once."

Captain Marks regarded him with narrowed eyes, then smiled for the first time that day. 

"Aye, aye, sir. And iffn' you don't mind, I'd take very kindly to havin' yourself and your staff aboard for dinner tonight."

"I'd be honored," Norrington said. "As this is your city, I trust you to see to the arrangements." Mark's smile grew wider.

"Aye, aye, Commodore. You heard him, you scabrous lubbers! Start roundin' folks up!"

Norrington's lip twitched in an almost-smile. He wondered how many Captains had ruined their crews by overseeing every last detail. Train competence, expect competence, praise competence, and get out of the way -- that was the way to efficient underlings. Norrington returned to his ship, heading at last to the cockpit.

Shinarashi and Murtogg had the worst cleaned up by the time he arrived. The floors were mopped free of blood, the instruments set out to dry, and the wounded were being given their tot of rum, or, in the cases of men taking decoctions that could not be mixed with alcohol, a bit of a very tasty candy that Murtogg alone knew how to make. Norrington knew there was no cleaner cockpit in all the King's Navy, which was a shame. Normal cockpits were thick with the stench of rancid blood and vomit, the floor stained a sickly burgundy, the air stifling with the burn of suffering. 

Shinarashi's cockpit smelled of lavender and alcohol, with just the faintest hint of blood's coppery tang. Two of the midshipmen had painted lively scenes on the walls, and though they could barely be seen in the flickering candle-light, they helped. Anything helped; anything was better than the nauseating caves of other ships, where all those entering knew chances were better than they weren't they'd be leaving without parts of themselves. Norrington breathed again. Not a single whiff of the strangling stench of puss. Perhaps, while he taught the soldiers of the other detachments how to fight Makai, he'd have Shinarashi teach their surgeons the benefits of cleanliness -- with her bokuto if she had to.

He passed a tub filled with dirty bandages and rags waiting to be laundered. He noted there was a forearm and one leg in the amputation tub. The foot attached to that leg was nothing more than a mess of meat, as were the hand and wrist attached to the forearm.

"Who?" he asked, pointing to the tub. Shinarashi turned from her patient and stepped away. She pressed Norrington onto one of the trunks.

"Two seamen: Underhill and a mute everyone calls 'Musket' for no discernible reason. Or, at least, none that anyone would tell me."

"I've heard of Musket," Norrington murmured as Shinarashi removed the bandage. "The reason is nothing one repeats in front of a woman. Underhill is new, isn't he?"

"If he wasn't, you'd know his name, James- _sama_ " Shinarashi numbed the area and removed the spine. She made a couple of swift cuts, saying that this would allow the trapped pathogens to evacuate, as if Norrington knew what that meant. She then told him about the other casualties as she worked, carefully probing for any remaining bits of hippocampus spine. As she cleaned and bandaged the wound, she gave him the death total: 23.

Norrington swore, unable to stop himself. Twenty-three dead in one battle, not counting the twenty-four that were injured. It was a damn good thing he had a half-ship of crew in reserve, not that that would last him long at this rate.

"Next time it will be better," Shinarashi said softly. "Next time they'll be prepared. And next time I can do more than sit in the cockpit." Norrington looked up at her. His expression would have been more intimidating if he'd had spectacles to look over, but it was still effective. "Come now, James-sama. The old hands were fairly accepting."

"The old hands were used to Murtogg and his almost-aware fox. I mean it, Shinarashi. Don't get yourself lynched."

"The same could be said for you," Shinarashi said primly, packing away her tools. Norrington smiled, a real smile of exhausted amusement. It was Shinarashi's voice, but his modulation. It was diffusion of the personality, like the self-control Gillette had learned from Norrington and the boldness Murtogg had absorbed from Shinarashi. With any luck, the old hands' calm would diffuse into the new men. Without luck, he'd be wearing a head-wind for the rest of this nightmare. “I will need to clean that again twice a day. If you do not come to me, I will tell the Captain.”

Norrington’s smile held a little longer in spite of himself. While many things had changed since Shinarashi had ceased to be his fox, some things had not. "I need a bullhorn to 'amplify' my voice. Could you procure one?"

"Certainly. Why?"

"Town meeting. The townsfolk saw the hippocampi. I'll explain things to both crews, the Justinian personnel, and the civilians all at once."

"Efficient," Shinarashi commented. "I meant what I said about the lynching."

"So did I," Norrington said, rising. "Carry on, Doctor."

* * *

An hour later saw him holding a megaphone made of canvas and ribbing, on a stage normally used for anything from official declarations to farces to hangings. He looked out over the hushed, fearful, and distrusting faces in the crowd. What could he possibly say to them? He'd pondered the question, and had only been able to think of one answer: the truth. Only the unvarnished facts would satisfy, as tempting as it was to weave soft lies or gentle half-truths. 

He hated speeches. If they'd told him when he'd been offered promotion to Commodore his life would become one nails-digging-into-the-palm God-I-hope-this-works "inspirational" message after another, he'd have sent them and their pretty medal packing.

Well, no, he wouldn't have, because it was his duty to accept. But he would have been much more sorely tempted.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. He paused, licking his lips, then ploughed on. "I know... I know that many of you have heard of me. I know that you've heard stories you said to yourself couldn't be more than exaggerations. Some of them are. But some of them, as you've seen today, aren't."

They were still staring. The townsfolk looked at each other, their faces lined with foreboding. The _Justinian_ 's crew were shaking their heads. The old hands, however, were rolling their eyes fondly. Gillette and Shinarashi had their heads together. He saw money changing hands.

His crew knew him too well, and knew how his silver tongue locked up at the first glimmer of an audience. This was as bad as his proposal to Elizabeth.

Groves made a short gesture with one hand, a small curling roll.

Right. Don't think yourself to death. Just... flow. Like the current. He focused on the old hands, ignoring the rest of the audience. This was the apology to them he'd never been able to make.

"I know this isn't easy for you. And I'm sorry you had to be introduced so harshly to a world not of your making. We’re told from the day we learn to read that anything beautiful is a lie, and that anything enchanting is a child’s dream that is unworthy of a man." He saw Murtogg's head perk up. _Yes, Benjamin, I'm stealing your lines._ "That great truth proved to be a hollow lie, one that cost you friends and comrades. And I led you to it." He had it, now. He had his rhythm and a clear line-of-sight from Point A to Point B. All he had to do was get there. He looked back out to his audience.

"The real truth, the whole truth, the truth that must be accepted if we are to survive is that magic is real. It is as real as science, as terrible as our worst imaginings alone on a dark night, and as beautiful as our most pleasant daydream. You all saw the hippocampi with your own eyes, lost someone you know to their spikes and tails. Magic is real, and a long time ago it was taken away."

Norrington took a deep breath. It was a long story, and they needed to bear with him. He outlined the creation of the barrier, Barbossa’s men, and the after-effects as briefly as he could.

"The benevolent magical creatures are content for the most part to stay on their side of the door. The malevolent, however, have been crossing with increasing frequency. Until today, they have been confining themselves to Port Royal waters, and my crew and I have been handling them,” he continued. "Today, however, proves that they are expanding their territory. They will most likely continue to expand until the mages realize there's a hole in the door and patch it. However, magical as these intruders be, they can be fought. They can be defeated. We've done it before, just like you've heard in those stories you thought couldn't be real. And more importantly, we can teach you to do the same."

Norrington lowered the megaphone. There were no cheers, but he expected none. There were no murmurs or cries for witch-burnings, though, so he considered the speech a success overall. The Commodore turned and descended the stairs. Shinarashi stood to the side, and approached him when he gestured.

"There is a packet of envelopes in my office on the _Surprise_. Each envelope contains a message for the commander and flag ship of each detachment within a week's sail from here, summoning them to Montego Bay on the day of the hippocampi's return. Deliver them, but make it appear they came in the post. Do not be seen," he ordered in a soft murmur.

"Even turning to water and traveling in the currents, it will take me all of today and most of tomorrow," Shinarashi replied in equal softness. Norrington nodded.

"Go, then. Good luck."

"Sir," Shinarashi replied with a crisp salute. She departed. In the hustle following Norrington's speech, no one noticed her leaving. Nor did they notice a small, oilcloth bag racing through the water.


	6. All the King's Men

Lydia Evans wasn't happy. She had presented herself at the tree for teaching during her uncle's tea for two days now, and her teacher hadn't been there. The _Surprise_ and _Stargazer_ were both docked at the Fort, and yet Miss Hito -- Miss Hito-sensei, Lydia corrected herself, what a silly name -- was nowhere to be seen. Lydia put her hands on her hips. She'd exercised every day. (Well, almost every day.) She'd done the repetitions. (Though not to the point her legs burned.) The least Miss Hito-sensei could do was show up. 

On the other hand, the woman was a complete and utter sadist, so perhaps it was for the better she'd disappeared for a few days. Lydia sighed again, dramatically. There had to be a way to learn to fight than this. The knee-bends, push-ups, the running, the weights -- it was all so much work. Tedious, mind-numbing work that wasn't fun or adventurous at all. Neither was Miss Hito-sensei's attitude. That unflappable omniscience was more irritating than even Lydia's maid's barely-hidden contempt. Besides, who was she to pretend to wisdom? She was just a doctor. A woman capable of fighting men, true, but still not a woman of breeding or substance. Lydia hrumphed to herself. Not even a woman of compassion. Just cold and unbending rules, of never-ending certainty in her own rightness. Another sigh. There had to be an easier way to learn to fight. Miss Hito-sensei just wasn't teaching it. 

Maybe she didn't want the competition. Perhaps, just perhaps, she wanted the Commodore all to herself, and she was trying to cut Lydia off before she'd even started. Sabotaging her under the guise of help. Or maybe she just didn't know what the easier way was, what way Elizabeth Turner had learned. Somehow she didn't imagine Mrs. Turner doing knee-bends. 

Lydia tapped her foot impatiently, staring up at the door. Miss Hito-sensei wasn't there, nor was she coming. It had to have been at least fifteen minutes. She turned on her heel to leave when her teacher's voice stopped her. 

"Greetings, Evans-san. I apologize for my tardiness. The Commodore sent me on an errand separate from the ships, and I have only just returned," the Oriental woman said in that disgustingly formal prose she affected. It was as polite as a society tea and as cold as the moors at night. "I think today would be a good day for your examination." 

"Examination?" Lydia demanded, her hands on her hips. Shinarashi nodded once, then scrambled up the tree. The ladder was dropped, and Lydia climbed up it. "What examination?" 

"An examination to see how your muscles have developed and if adjustments must be made in your routine. You have been doing the exercises I prescribed for you?" 

"Of course," Lydia said. Miss Hito-sensei raised her eyebrows. 

"Every day?" 

"Yes." 

Miss Hito-sensei's lips pressed together, and she made a non-committal noise. She then held out her arms. 

"Grasp my hands at the wrist," she instructed, "and resist me when I push." Lydia frowned and did as she was told. Her teacher applied steadily increasing force, measuring how much it took to overwhelm Lydia's resistance. A similar procedure was used on her legs. Then Miss Hito-sensei had her do each exercise until her muscles burned. Afterwards, she fixed some tea -- half green and half black -- and gently massaged the pain from her student. Then she sat at the table and took a cup of tea for herself. Everything was done in an echoing silence. 

"You have not been doing your exercises once a day, let alone whenever you can," Miss Hito-sensei said, breaking the quiet. Her voice was smooth and heavy with disapproval. "Nor have you been doing them for the time allotted. Judging by your progress; you have been exercising until you first feel fatigue every other day, or less. Am I correct?" Her teacher's oddly-golden eyes regarded her steadily. Lydia found that she couldn't meet that gaze. She stared at her cup, feeling the cold clench in her stomach of being caught. "Evans-san, the exercises I give you serve a purpose. They train you to withstand the weight of your weapon and the exertion of combat. If you do not do them properly, then they have no value. They become a waste of time. I do not enjoy having an hour and a half five days a week for three weeks wasted." 

"But there has to be an easier way!" Lydia wailed. Her hands fluttered helplessly. "How Mrs. Turner learned." 

"There is not," Hito-sensei snapped. It was the first sign of real emotion Lydia had seen since her first visit nearly a month ago. "Turner-san learned by mimicking the exercises taught to young Will Turner-san by the then-Lieutenant Norrington-sama. They were different exercises, granted, because he was learning a one-handed English sword and you are learning a two-handed Japanese one. Young Will Turner-san practiced for three hours a day, and Elizabeth Turner-san for one. The basic principles were and are the same." Hito-sensei stood. 

"What I ask of you is minimal compared to the rigors and discipline of the life of a sailor. If you do wish the life Sparrow-san and I lead, then you must accept that you must work for it. If that thought is such an anathema to you, then do not return to me. However, if you are willing to work, then I will teach you as best I can. When you have decided one way or the other, inform me. Good day, Evans-san." Miss Hito-sensei took the tea service and crossed the room to the kitchen. She poured water in a tub and began cleaning the dishes. Her back was ramrod-straight. 

Lydia departed. 

After the last of her footfalls had faded, Shinarashi furled her rope ladder and jumped out of her house. She padded through the tropical forest until she found a sturdy tree. She hammered on it with her fists until it splintered and fell. Shinarashi sat on the fallen log, disappointment clenching her stomach and fists. 

She had been a fool. Sitting on that damp log watching the insects scurry by, she knew she had been a fool. All the signs that Lydia was unsuited the world of a sailor, all the signs that this was no more than some foolish dream -- they had all been there. Shinarashi had rationalized them away as old habits. Now... Now she saw the signs as clearly as she'd perceived the failed examinations and the woman's lies. Evans-san lacked discipline. She had never had to work for anything in her life, so she didn't feel she should have to. She was flighty and shallow and would not return. Shinarashi's instincts told her so as much as her preternatural smell did. 

The Doctor slowly unclenched her fists and rested her hands on her knees. It was for the best, really. Why should she waste her time on a female companion when her shipmates suited her just fine? 

Yes.

Maybe James-sama had a point about her lying to herself.

* * *

Benjamin Murtogg was surprised at how quickly his friend's student had washed out. In his calculations, the kitsune woman had allowed three failed exams before throwing the girl out. Perhaps the military's efficiency was having a good effect on her. Or perhaps the stupid woman had appealed to the mythical "easier way" that Mrs. Turner was said to employ. Lubbers. Every sailor knew that just because something wasn't plainly seen didn't mean it wasn't there. All in the Fort had known about Will Turner's sparring partner, and to keep mum about it to the Governor. For all their complaining, sailors could be surprisingly insular. 

It was hard not to laugh, really. Shinarashi was so disappointed, both in herself and her student. Her tail lay listlessly beside her like a forgotten sash, her posture lacked her usual regal straightness, and her ears drooped. It was the single most adorable thing Benjamin had ever seen. The temptation to reach up and scratch behind her fox-ears was overwhelming, but Murtogg held himself in check. The prospective reward of feeling those fuzzy black ears didn't outweigh the risk of losing an arm. 

"Shinarashi," Murtogg said, smothering his amusement even though he knew she could probably smell it, "you're blowing this completely out of proportion. You've only known Miss Evans for not even a month." 

"It's not the time-line," Shinarashi said with a certain degree of hauteur. She definitely smelled his amusement. "It's the principle of the thing. I didn't see what was right in front of my face." 

"No, you were too hopeful to pay attention. There's a difference. It's nothing to sulk over." Murtogg gave up hiding his smile. Shinarashi jerked straight, like a fox being aggressed at by a mouse. 

"I'm not sulking!" 

"Yes," Murtogg said, smile widening to a grin, "you are. I have five sisters. That is definitely a sulk." 

"That's not true." 

"You'd smell it if I was lying." 

Shinarashi stuck her tongue out at him. Murtogg blushed. 

"You're very pretty, you know," he blurted. "Even making a face." 

It was Shinarashi's turn to color.

* * *

At the end of the week, the _Surprise_ returned to Montego Bay. All of the invited station heads were there: Captain Mulberry of New Norfolk, Captain Welks of Refugio, Captain Zeigler of New Westminster, Captain Larsen of Dagmar, and Admiral Gloucester of Kingston. Commodore Wellesley of Nassau had been visiting Admiral Gloucester when the invitation had arrived, and had come at the Admiral's invitation. Norrington had dealt with all of the men before. Gloucester and Wellesley were powerful men from powerful families, dutiful in their obligations. Gloucester, in fact, had captained the _Dauntless_ on its journey from England. Mulberry was rather flighty; Welks was solidly dependable if unimaginative; Zeigler was a tactical genius; and Larsen had the full benefit of his Danish heritage -- he balked at nothing. All of their commissions save Welks's outdated Norrington's by years. 

In his cabin, safe from prying eyes, Norrington shook the pins and needles out of his extremities as best he could. He rotated his good hand clockwise, then counter-clockwise, all the while flexing his fingers. He took deep breaths for four seconds, held for four, exhaled in eight. Slowly his nerves subsided. This would require levels of tact that he had never before summoned, and an equal amount of blind luck. If the assorted commanders decided to form a lynch mob and put him and the hippocampi out of action, he'd be hard-pressed to stop them. He considered taking Shinarashi with him to serve as backup -- he could use an extra ten-men's worth of strength, but ultimately decided against it. The commanders would be heavily resistant to and distracted by the idea of a Commodore granting a mere woman equality. He needed them focused. On the other hand, if things did go to the chamber pot, a little more magic wouldn't be that much of a disaster. 

Norrington stuck his head out of his door. His face and voice were calm, even if he still couldn't feel his fingertips or toes. 

"Lieutenant Schwansee," deliberately choosing his First Lieutenant, "please send for Shinarashi. Tell her she is to accompany me in fox-form in case things to badly." He was not going to use the phrase "went to chamber pot" in front of his men, even if Will's signature phrase was delightfully descriptive. Schwansee glared, but did as told. 

Shinarashi’s disappearance at Montego Bay and her equally inexplicable re-appearance at the Fort had proven impossible to explain without telling the truth. Schwansee was having a hard time adapting to the idea of a female equal, let alone a demonic one. Fortunately, only ten of the new men had tried to do harm to Shinarashi. They had been easily quelled, and now sat in the brig. Norrington kept his nose and eyes peeled for signs of other men concluding that killing the Port Royal mascot would stop the magic. There were faint rustling among almost half the new hires, but those would dispel after the first time Shinarashi rained holy terror down on some unsuspecting Makai. At least, Norrington hoped so. 

He was relying far too much on luck as of late. It made him nervous. 

Shinarashi, in silver-black fox form, appeared promptly at his door. Norrington picked her up. She arranged herself neatly on his shoulders. Norrington had thought those years ago -- and thought so still – that a fox was a classy addition to a uniform. He hoped Gloucester appreciated it. 

_Show time, as they say,_ , Shinarashi murmured in his thoughts. _Do I get to bite anyone?_

_No._ A pause. _Why would you want to?_

_I don't know. But I wanted to know if the option was open._

Impossible woman.

* * *

They were seated in the conference room of Captain Marks's fort. Larsen, the least senior captain, sat at the foot of the table. Mulberry and Welks sat on his left and right. Mulberry was seated next to Zeigler, Welks next to Marks. Norrington and Wellesley sat across from each other, and Admiral Gloucester occupied the head of the table. Out of difference to Wellesley's older commission, he sat at the Admiral's right. Though he understood the reasons for it, Norrington couldn't but feel impatient with the posturing. He sat in his assigned place, pocketing the card with his name. Shinarashi dismounted, sitting next to his right hand. Mulberry and Welks stared at the fox. Zeigler did as well, but his look was hungry. Pet flashed her teeth at him. 

"My land, Norrington, you've done well for yourself!" Gloucester's voice was commanding and affable at once in a way Norrington had never been able to master. The man was wider with age than the whiplike man Midshipman Norrington had worshipped, but his eyes were that same sharp brown. "And what a beautiful specimen, though I don't see why you've brought her here. Nor why you've summoned us all to this little soiree." 

"Thank you, sir," Norrington said, saluting before shaking the proffered hand. "If I may beg your indulgence, I've brought you here to save the world." He smiled wryly. As predicted, Gloucester laughed. 

"Always aiming high, eh?" Gloucester took his seat. With a wave of his hand, he ceded the floor to Norrington. The Fox Commodore stood. 

"This is going to sound unbelievable, gentlemen, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask your indulgence as well. I can prove what I say to you." Norrington fixed each man with a look, then repeated for what felt like the hundredth time the story of the _Black Pearl_ and its consequences. He added a modest description of the events in Montego Bay's harbor the week before. "I have every reason to suspect that the expansion will continue, and that your detachments are at risk." 

Norrington stopped to survey the crowd. Wellesley and Mulberry wore looks of stark disbelief. Gloucester, Zeigler and Larsen looked suspicious, as if they thought he might be mad. But Welks looked relieved. 

"Good God, man," Welks gritted out. "I thought I was going mad. We've lost control of Cantabria Shoal completely. Some kind of swimming dragon had taken it over and eats crew and cargo of any ship that passes near. You've said you beaten these things? I don't see how. We've tried every week for a month." 

Wellesley, Mulberry, Gloucester, Zeigler, and Larsen alternated between staring at each other and at the three Makai veterans. At last, the Admiral cleared his throat. 

"Norrington," he said, all trace of levity gone. "You said you could prove this?" 

"So I can," Norrington said, collecting Pet. "If you will follow me." 

He led his fellow officers from the conference room to a small, rocky shore behind the fort. Pet let out a piping call, and the hippocampi surfaced. Judging by the oaths and flailing, Marks had been wise to have their weapons taken at the door. Norrington complimented him for it in a low voice. The beleaguered Captain stood taller at the praise. 

"These are the hippocampi I told you about. They were being controlled when they attacked Montego Bay. Now free of that control, they're quite harmless. They are merely here to prove my point," Norrington said, his voice carrying over the shouts. Though the Naval officers' bodies stilled, their eyes were still wild. The beauty of the creatures was lost on them. Which, Norrington reflected, was probably true of all of them. No matter how he told himself they were non-violent, he couldn't stop thinking about the deadly potential in hooves and spines. 

"I think it might be best to adjourn for a few moments, to let you adjust," Norrington said slowly. 

"Adjust!" Wellesley shrieked. "There is no 'adjust.'" 

"There is, there can be, there has been," Larsen graveled. The tall, broad man was the only one who showed no trace of panic. "The Fox Commodore and his men have done it, Marks and Welks are doing it, and we have to. If we can't keep it together and stop these things, do you think the army will be able to? They can't find a pot to piss in in a pottery shop." 

That was something all of the officers had to agree to. No matter how bizarre and terrifying this was, they certainly couldn't leave it in the hands of the army. 

"Fine, Norrington," Gloucester said, taking control of the situation. His voice wasn't as steady as Larsen's, but then again, Larsen had an unfair advantage. "We'll... take a few minutes to get over the shock. In the meantime... just... just get those things out of here." 

Another piping call from Shinarashi and the hippocampi departed. 

The officers took twenty minutes to calm themselves, then reassembled in the conference room. Every man but Norrington took a snifter of brandy. 

"I assume you have a plan, Commodore?" Gloucester asked. He looked old, all of the sudden. Norrington wondered for a fleeting moment if he himself aged so quickly.

"I do. My men -- the old hands, that is to say -- are all well-schooled in how to defeat these Makai. I will assign one seaman to each detachment to teach you what we've learned along the way. I will send with them a list of supplies you will need. The hippocampi are telekinetic in the water: they can disappear in one spot and appear in another. They feel they must work off the debt they owe mankind for the destruction of the _Justinian_ 's men, and have agreed to serve as messengers. Shinarashi, my surgeon, can speak their language and will teach them English. Afterwards, I will assign one per detachment." Wellesley opened his mouth to protest. Norrington cut him off. "Instantaneous communication is a boon too great to pass up." 

"I will send word to Captain Gillette to assist you with your dragon problem, Captain Welks. In the meanwhile, I will be taking two of the hippocampi and journeying to the detachments on the outer islands. Whenever possible, I will assure their cooperation. Between us, we can provide support and succor for what civilian refugees occur -- and they will. The escalation is undeniable. 

"Gentlemen, this is not a marauder band or pirate syndicate. This is the beginning of a war." 

Norrington looked at Gloucester. The Fox Commodore knew what he was asking of the man. Gloucester looked back, knowing that by every Naval tradition and code, he should put Norrington in his place. But Naval tradition and code didn't change that what he had just discovered and what Marks and Welks had fought once, Norrington had fought for two years. And he'd won. Won, where Marks and Welks had been sent away with their tails between their legs. Gloucester was no fool. 

"This is your bailiwick, Norrington," Gloucester said after clearing his throat. "You’ll take point. Anyone who doesn’t listen to you will answer to me." Gloucester stared long and hard at each rebellious face. "Personally." 

Norrington lowered his eyes, the smallest of smiles escaping his control at the honor. "I appreciate your confidence in my strategic capabilities, sir. You will, of course, accompany me to the detachments?" 

"Of course," Gloucester said gruffly. "Dismissed."


	7. Cohesive Properties

To say that Norrington walked into his domicile would be a misnomer. He did not walk, for that implied energy and acuity. The appropriate description of Norrington's gait would be something between a lurch and a swagger, and the only adjective to describe his posture after dropping onto his couch was dead weight. Pet rolled off his shoulders as he dropped, shedding her fox form to lay on the rug. She contemplated climbing into the chair, but ultimately decided that was a waste of energy. The long walk to her own dwelling was out of the question. 

"That's really not an appropriate posture," Norrington mumbled through the exhaustion. He had no idea what language he was speaking and he didn't care. Shinarashi garbled a reply that was only discernible as profane. It had been a long month away from Port Royal, trapped in the company of the _Surprise_ 's crew, losing one old hand after another to each passing port. The round of speeches, placations, explanations, defenses, and then back out to sea towards the next port had wearied more that the battles they'd fought along the way. Of the eight ports they'd visited, three had been attacked during the _Surprise_ 's visit, and the last had been recovering from an earlier skirmish with a band of necromantic constructs. He almost felt sorry Commodore Wellesley, returning to Nassau to find a good portion of the town in ashes. 

He certainly sympathized. Four ships bound for Port Royal had been molested by Makai while Norrington had been away. Unlike Nassau, however, Port Royal's denizens had had Gillette to protect them. Most of the _Stargazer_ 's crew were sporting welts from the Master's rattan for moving slowly, but the ships had been rescued. That was all that mattered in the end, or so Norrington told himself. And so he had told Gillette. The Frenchman had been in a towering fury over his men's sluggishness. 

"He expects the new hands to adapt as fast as yours did to Sparrow-san's men," Shinarashi grumbled. She yawned widely, exhausted from protecting Norrington and the hippocampi from a mob seven times over. Norrington wondered if she was listening to his mind or if they had simply fought together too hard for too long. 

"S'not fair," Norrington murmured sleepily. He didn't know where Jervis was and didn't care. He could easily fall asleep right there. The couch was soft and warm and it didn't involve climbing stairs. He toed the pillow by his feet. It fell off the couch. He heard the shifting sounds of Shinarashi retrieving the pillow and her yawned thanks. 

"Fair's not important. Staying alive's important." "Staying" was stretched by another yawn. Norrington didn't debate her, he just closed his eyes. There was a stack of mail on his desk, the Commodore was certain, and there were plans to make and paperwork to do. But as eager as his spirit was, his body demanded rest. 

Norrington opened them to find Jervis shaking his shoulder. 

"Mmm? I'm awake," Norrington slurred. It felt like he'd just closed his eyes, but the darkness outside the window said he'd been asleep for at least three hours. 

"The hippocampi delivered a message, sir," his butler said in his sternest tones. "Dagmar has been struck by gulon. They destroyed the greater part of their supplies and the shelters for those from Nassau taking sanctuary there. Your orders, sir?" 

"Gulon?" Norrington asked, dragging himself out of the fog. 

"Face of a cat, body and tail of a fox, sharp nails and fur," Shinarashi supplied, sitting up. "French. They're carrion-eaters, not aggressors." 

"Was there a mage?" Norrington asked. 

"I don't know, sir," Jervis said primly, eyeing Shinarashi's bosom. With a filthy glare, Shinarashi tightened her kimono. 

"Who assisted?" 

"I don't know, sir," the butler said again. "Mr. Murtogg is in the entryway, however, if you wish to ask him. I could not, of course, escort him to the parlor." 

This time it was Norrington's turn to shoot the butler a stiff stare. 

"Just send him in. And bring some food and coffee." 

Jervis bowed stiffly and departed. 

"You're being 'too familiar' with the men again," Shinarashi said, climbing into one of the chairs and tucking her legs beneath her. Murtogg was shown in. He bowed formally, then took the proffered seat. He glanced at Shinarashi, then looked at Norrington and did not look away. 

"There wasn't a mage at Dagmar, sir," Murtogg reported. "But the gulon wore collars of green with gold stitching. They looked very much like Shinarashi's old collar from the descriptions. Captain Larsen and his men think they've hunted down all the gulon, but there may be more in the rain forest. Truth be told, the civilians did more damage than the beasts, sir." 

"A panic," Norrington said. He resisted the urge to curse when Murtogg nodded. "The hippocampi?" 

"Fine, sir," Murtogg said. Jervis arrived with the food and coffee. Murtogg accepted the latter and declined the former. Norrington gestured for Murtogg to continue as he began wolfing down his eggs, cheese, and bread. 

"They blamed the folks from Nassau, said they'd brought the bad luck with them. The preachers said the gulon were minions of Satan come to punish them, so the townspeople tried to murder the whores and burn the taverns to prove their repentance. Captain Larsen finally had to lock up the priests and the most faithful among the congregation just to restore order. He's a formidable man, sir." 

"Has Governor Swann made any announcements?" 

"Yes. He told everyone everything. When Driscoll started piping up noise, Governor Swann told him he'd knock off the nonsense or be thrown in jail. Driscoll closed his mouth right quick, and so did the other preachers. Zeigler and Mulberry both believed their towns' priests and killed the hippocampi assigned to them. They're shipping out the prostitutes and innkeepers." 

"Have them brought here from wherever those madmen are landing them," Norrington said, disgust souring his appetite. He ate anyway: God knew when he'd next get the chance. "Bring everyone who wants to come, in fact. We'll find room for them. Are the Emily and the Drake still docked?" Murtogg reported that neither merchant ship had departed. "Press them both to haul the civilians." 

"The captains won't like that," Murtogg commented. 

"Not my problem," Norrington said. "It's only for a couple voyages, it's not like I'm taking their entire crews to fill my ranks. But don't tell them that. It'll be a good threat to ensure cooperation." Shinarashi laughed, and swallowed the sound. She fiddled at with her food, knowing if she opened her mouth she'd start laughing again. The demon woman did her best to look apologetic. 

"You're tired," Murtogg commented. 

"Using my own energy for spells makes it that way; limits what I can do and drains me," Shinarashi said breathily. "I had to do it too often this past month. I'll be fine, with sleep."

"Inform the Admiral of what's going on in New Westminster and New Norfolk," Norrington said, setting his empty plate aside. Murtogg turned his face back to Norrington, even if his eyes stayed slightly to the side. Though Norrington couldn't see it, the nebulous glow that surrounded Shinarashi was dull and matte. It worried Benjamin. "Go on to the Fort, I'll catch up." Murtogg nodded, stood, saluted, and left. 

Norrington called for a pair of wash basins. Shinarashi set her half-eaten plate aside and washed her face as Norrington did. Once both were acceptably groomed, they walked to the Fort. Shinarashi didn't say anything and neither did Norrington. As they approached the Fort, Norrington's step became more lively and his posture straightened. The ambient energy of the Naval hub invigorated him, so that by the time he reached his office his tiredness was just a memory. A similar phenomenon had occurred during the past month's recruitment voyage, each time he returned to his ship after the draining politicking on shore. Murtogg noticed that Norrington's aura was brilliant and glossy, whereas Shinarashi's was unchanged. He guessed correctly that, for all Shinarashi's experience, when it came down to stamina and raw power Norrington was the better of the pair. 

The next few moments passed in a flurry of activity as the commanders were fully briefed, as the merchant captains were alternatively placated and bullied into cooperating, and as the Admiral was sent on his way. Shinarashi's presence was mostly felt behind the scenes as she readied medical supplies to be sent with the merchant rescue vessels. Groves organized the food and blankets, and then the two ships were sent on their way. Norrington's crisp step and posture indicated he had no intention of returning to sleep. He commanded Shinarashi to turn one of the Fort's storehouses into a cockpit. In his zeal, he did not notice that she had not rebounded as he had. 

And, Murtogg had to admit, Shinarashi was putting a good face on it. How could he expect a man as busy as the Commodore to notice that, despite the heat and her clipped diction, she had goosebumps? At least, that's what Murtogg told himself as he took Shinarashi aside after the barrels had been cleared away. 

"You... you can take a nip from me, if it would help," Murtogg murmured softly. Shinarashi blinked several times, trying to process. Then she slumped. 

"Benjamin, you don't know what you're offering," she rasped. Her voice was flat and lusterless. Her eyes, though, were luminous. "Making up what I've lost would put you under for weeks. It's... it's too much. I'll be fine once I sleep." The marine gently steered Shinarashi to a trunk left behind to serve as a table. He sat on it. The waning Doctor collapsed next to him. She was shivering. Hesitantly, Murtogg draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. She vaguely tried to pull away. 

"Just breathe," Murtogg said, gently petting her soft white hair. "We've got a few minutes before Daniels will be able to round up enough cots. Just breathe." Shinarashi slowly leaned sideways, her head resting on Benjamin's chest. It was a warm, comfortable, safe spot, and she was so tired. Too tired to resist, too tired to think of what had to be done, too tired even to worry what James-sama might say. All she had energy for as listening to Benjamin's heart beating and the rustle of breath in his lungs. Her breathing soon became rhythmic and shallow. 

Murtogg smiled. He gently picked her up and secreted her in the nook used to hold the rum. He pillowed her obi beneath her and draped his jacket over her shoulders. He tilted his head sideways, watching silently as she slept. She was beautiful. Whites and darks, points where he was accustomed to seeing curves, and so very small. Murtogg gently traced her jaw with the back of his fingers. Perfect, really. 

Benjamin stood and closed the nook's door. When the seamen arrived, he told them that Shinarashi had left to pick some herbs that could only be harvested at night. He deftly kept them away from the rum nook, organizing the array of cots, buckets, and barrels. Readying the infirmary took the remainder of the night. When dawn arrived, Murtogg woke Shinarashi, endured her groggy scolding for letting her sleep, and escorted her home. 

He left the forest feeling ten feet tall. For the first time in months, he didn't picture Clark's face.

* * *

The exiles of New Norfolk and New Westminster arrived in Port Royal to blistering heat and soggy humidity later that afternoon. They did not care. All that mattered to them were the stern but mild faces of the Fort Charles crew, the barley and water they dispensed, and the safety of four stone walls. The gentle brown eyes of the surgeon's assistant and the kind, if odd, golden gaze of the surgeon registered on their collective consciousness, as did the mercy of the two wealthy volunteers. The knowledge that they were no longer marooned on a waterless isle without food, no longer blamed for a crisis not of their making: this was the circumference of their world. Only one other fact called to them out of the fog their lives had become -- that their rescuers had been dispatched by the Fox Commodore. 

Elizabeth Turner moved among the exiles, taking down names and family members, reuniting children with parents and spouses with mates. She listened to stories and soothed fears, as did her husband. They provided what assistance to Murtogg and Shinarashi as they could, but the principles of Makai medicine were far beyond their limited scientific understanding.

By the coming of night, all the exiles had been clustered by family and bedded down. The weary and heart-sore staff broke for their own suppers in the Fort mess. Will and Elizabeth returned to the smithy.

"We should be doing something," Will said with the force of a demand. The brewing anger he'd felt all afternoon was at last given voice. "We must fight!" 

"Fight who?" Elizabeth asked wearily, resting her elbows on the table as she tore her bread to pieces. "If we charge into New Norfolk and New Westminster and take over, we'll only be adding anarchy to an already-critical situation. Our best course is what we're doing now: caring for the victims until Admiral Gloucester can re-establish order." 

"'This isn't the time for rash action,'" Will quoted with bitter stubbornness. "We did all right last time." 

"With one ship and one crew -- which we lost," Elizabeth pointed out. She smiled softly, then leaned forward and took her husband's hand. "I know that sitting still is difficult for you. But we fought one crew of cursed pirates. This is a war." Will looked at his wife dubiously.

"I hate being helpless," Will said. He slouched forward, his fire dimmed but not extinguished. Elizabeth went around their table to kiss his cheek. 

"You're not helpless. You're just giving different help," she said. "I love you for it." Will smiled, and wrapped his arm around his wife's slim shoulders.

* * *

Zayin Notusson stood elegantly in the center of the room, a king surveying his kingdom. The Room of Mirrors was oval in shape, not that anyone standing where Zayin was could see that. The room was as dark as the sea-floor save for the pool of light surrounding each mirror and the pool of light in the center of the room. The darkness served two purposes; both a trap for intruders and a removal of distraction. His gray eyes glittering, Zayin crossed the void between the center-light and the smallest of his mirrors. His black robes whispered against his legs and the light played off the streak of silver in his ebony hair, making him more part of the room than an occupant. 

There were seven mirrors, each a different shape and size. Each mirror served a different purpose. The largest, a full-length monstrosity framed in silver leaf filigree, sported shifting landscapes in its glass. To step through the mirror was to be instantly transported to the landscape seen. Making one landscape in particular appear and hold long enough to step through took enormous amounts of discipline, but little power. 

The one on its left was smaller and framed in oak. Half the mirror was blue glass, the other silvered. In the blue side it displayed the inside of any object -- or person -- placed before it. In the silver side, it showed who had touched that person or object last. A truly focused and ordered mind could control either view, going deeper inside or farther back along the chain of custody. It was a useful, if little-used, mirror. 

The next mirror was framed in pine, a cheap wood. However, the cheapness of the frame did not undermine the power of the small shaving mirror. That mirror afforded instant communication with anyone, so long as the person contacted was near some sort of reflective surface: water, polished metal, glass, or even amber. 

The fourth mirror was middle-sized and framed in plain Roman gold. Its face was murky, a dull gray without reflection. Any soul already passed through Death could be summoned through that mirror. 

The fifth mirror, framed in arching gold ivy, was made of Avalon glass. It showed the true nature of any man who looked into it. Only a man so possessed of himself that the figure he saw exactly matched the reality could break the glass. Zayin had no use for the mirror, but kept it to complete is collection. 

The sixth mirror was cedar-framed, wide and thin. Any place could be viewed in its glass, and the weather of that locale altered to whatever Zayin saw fit. 

The seventh mirror was the true jewel of Zayin's collection. The previous owner had had no idea what a treasure he held in his little run-down shop; neither had the deceased ruler who had owned it previously. The foolish Queen had asked no more of it than to bolster her vanity; she'd never even asked the thing what else it could do. It was an unassuming mirror with a plain frame. A white, featureless face inhabited the glass, its eyes closed in sleep. It was to this mirror Zayin had come, just as he came every day. No matter what went on around him, Zayin was never to busy too cross the stone floor with steady tread and ask the one question that really mattered. 

"Looking glass, come to life!" Zayin ordered. "Where can I find the beast -- she who deserved it least -- the collared cur that was my wife?" 

"The collared cur I cannot find. Her keepers have quite lost their mind; they cannot find her, either, sir. Your darling wife must be without fur." 

"That's impossible, Mirror. Those curse-happy priests would never have released her, or the other captives." Zayin ordered gruffly. "Keep looking." 

The mirror raised an eyebrow. 

"I rhymed once, you twisted lunatic." 

"A lunatic I be, 'tis true, there's none more fair than the Lune. A beauty understood by few, poetry is quite the boon." 

"Doggerel is not poetry," Zayin chided, frustration yielding to as much fondness as he showed to anything. The mage leaned forward, resting one hand against the frame. 

"Check your dictionary, friend, bad poetry is poetry in the end." 

"If you say so," Zayin replied. "Show me the fourth and fifth columns." The picture wavered, showing that the last of Zayin's pieces had taken their proper place on the board. "And Gareth?" The picture disappeared, the face again taking its place. 

"Gareth's gulon did their work -- he felt the panic quite the perk." 

"What's a perk?" Zayin asked, blinking. 

"A perk is a boon had by chance. In two centuries' time: common parlance." 

"You made that up," Zayin said, straightening. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Mirror never failed to lift his dark mood to something tolerable. Indeed, save his missing wife, the mirror was his only friend. 

"Oh, my friend, that's a wrong blow -- as long as answers the seekers seek, only the truth can I speak. You of all people this should know." 

"I'll give you that one," Zayin said. He crossed his arms, his thumb idly tracing back and forth along the tips of his fingers. 

"Your worry borders on distraught," Mirror said after a pause. "If she is, as I suspect, dead, and all of this is all for naught -- is this the prospect you so dread? Or is it rather the other hand? Where from the curse she forged release, that she's taken on life a new lease, and with you she will no more stand?" 

Zayin said nothing for a long while. 

"That she's dead," he finally confessed, his inscrutable face folding into one of grief. "The world's a big place, but we've been in Ningenkai for, what, a year now? If the curse was still active, you should have been able to locate that collar by now." 

"And the other possibility you so resist, is it so impossible there's naught to miss?" 

"The curse would only stop if the recipient loved a human," Zayin said. He shook his head. "I could believe it of the first six, given time. Captives have been known to befriend their captors given enough isolation. I might even be able to believe it of Isao if you hadn't found his corpse. But not my wife. Not after what those bastards did to her." 

"Zayin... the truth can be hard to hear, and it's hard to face our deepest fear. But there's more than power in a name. Wife and Doctor are called the same." 

Pain spasmed across the mage's features. 

"No. It's... it's impossible. Areen’s magic was distinctive and so were Rogir’s skeletons. They’d been friends since University. Ryoko would have fled to either of their sides instantly. Norrington's Doctor must be one of the other captives. The woman has stolen Ryoko's title. Maybe she even killed her to do it. I'll wager she doesn't even know my wife's real name, and that's why she's keeping the false one." Zayin looked into the distance. "We never used our true names around anyone else. It was safer that way. And it was good... to have a secret." 

"A picture could end your hesitation -- doubts and certainties alike erase -- but Port Royal is a blank space, shrouded as in vegetation." Zayin didn't respond. The Mirror continued, "if I could part the Commodore's interference; if there was any way to end your pain, to give your hopes all due coherence..." The Mirror trailed off. All he wanted was to rest a hand on those broad shoulders that bent with the agony of not knowing. And he couldn't, because he was only glass. "Even if someone broke her spirit, friend, you're still the stronger in the end." 

Zayin looked up from the ground, his face blooming from despair to calculation. 

"The priests only specified love. They didn't specify duration, volition, or even if the captive was in a binding state of mind." He steepled his fingers and rested the index fingers against his upper lip. "It's possible... Imposter or not, I need to meet this 'Shinarashi,' I think." And with that, he disappeared.


	8. Opening Moves

_From the Log of Captain Welks  
Master and Commander of the Seraphina  
Assigned to Refugio_

September 8, 1723  
Wind from the west today, weather fair. There was an odd sort of hue to the sunset last night, and the odd glow remained through the night. I have set course to investigate. Two men were disciplined for drunkenness today: Seaman Conrad and Midshipman Lewis. Another seaman, Perseverance Jones, attempted to desert. He was duly executed. I know that Commodore Norrington thinks highly of the "common man," but I have yet to see why. They are a cowardly, foolish, and dull lot. The higher sentiments of loyalty and duty have been bred and beaten out of them to the point where all they understand is force.

September 9, 1723  
The odd glow emanated from New Snape, a small settlement of Scotsmen just inside Refugio's territory. They are cattle men, mostly, breeding their savory if odd-looking Highland beasts. They were being menaced by a dragon, a female one. The glow was her warming her eggs. Instructor Newman told the men to fire at her nest. He stated that this would enrage her, causing her to leave the village and pursue us into the open sea, where we would thereupon fire on her until she exhausted her "flight bladder," fell into the sea, and drowned.

I disagreed, feeling that killing her quickly was the best route, as Captain Gillette did with that sea dragon that overtook Cantabria Shoal. Newman, a common marine, had the nerve to tell me that I had to yield to him, as he was the Fox Commodore's representative! I had him thrown in the brig for such insolence. The men moved sluggishly while arresting him, doubtless out of their superstitious veneration of Norrington. I ordered a full battery on the dragon. The battle was protracted, and despite her injuries the dragon put up quite a fight. We triumphed in the end, though the town was completely demolished by the dragon's flailing and our own fire. We have taken the four surviving men back to Refugio. The two remaining cattle were slaughtered for a celebratory dinner.

September 10, 1723  
Newman, apparently, bespoke the hippocampus while I was not supervising. I have received today a sharply worded letter from the Fox Commodore instructing that the next time Newman speaks I am to listen. He also stipulated that I was not to throw Newman in the brig for recommending "a sound course of action that would have minimized civilian casualties" again. Frankly, the Fox Commodore is not a good leader of common men. He doesn't realize what my yielding to that Marine would have done for the man's ego. Also, seeing that would have inflated my crew's estimation of their own capabilities. A ship only succeeds because the men do not realize that they out-number the officers dozens to one. Any man that ceases to view his superiors as authorities, but as men, is a danger. Mark my words, Norrington will find himself on the wrong end of a mutiny for his laxness. 

September 13, 1723  
Engaged another Makai today. This time a basilisk molested Hope, another settlement within my purview. Newman demanded to be let ashore, claiming that if he sneaked ashore and provoked a cock to crowing, we could eliminate the beast without anyone being "petrified." Any man of science knows that a sound cannot kill, but I did not attempt to explain such deep matters to such a simple mind. I stated that I would open fire on the sleeping beast and we would have an end to things. Newman, losing utter control of his temper, shouted at my men not to look at the basilisk's eyes. He said they'd be turned to stone if they did. After hearing this, my men quite refused to open fire. The shouting must have awakened the beast, for a great rustling noise sounded from the beach. Several of my men turned to stone.

My sailors flew into quite the panic, refusing to look up. I did not turn around to face the beast, as a ship cannot afford to lose its captain because of curiosity. I commanded the gun crews to open fire. They would, of course, only have one shot before the aiming man turned to stone. The gun crews refused. One of the powder monkeys retrieved the cook's rooster, which Newman smacked sharply against the mast. The cock cried once, and the beast closed its eyes in death.

The basilisk had destroyed a good deal of the town and turned a great number of the inhabitants to stone. Some of them, however, appear to be in a state of suspended animation. Newman said that they had seen the basilisk's gaze in a reflection, and were merely petrified. Newman further stated that Norrington's barbarian could make a bath that could restore them, though there was no hope for those that had been turned to stone. I have, therefore, taken the petrified ones back to Refugio. Newman bespoke the hippocampus -- whose name, I am informed, is Skorcack -- who relayed the message to Port Royal. The needed herbs are on order from England, and should arrive in two months.

September 16, 1723  
I... I must admit to being humbled, today. Instructor Newman has quite shown me up, and it is a mercy of God that he did. Magdelena, a small town just south of here, was menaced by a pack of giant spiders. They were large, black, and terrible: pincers as long as my arm, venom that burned holes in all it touched, and web like steel. I froze. I could not move or speak as the four of them sat on their massive webs, sucking the insides out of the people they'd captured. 

Newman had to push me aside as one of them sprayed webbing at the ship, and it was Newman who took up a rope and with sharp blows and rallying words roused the men to fire on the spiders. The beasts were fain to enter the water, which limited our canon range. However, their chitinous hide was not impervious to our shot. Newman killed two, whereupon the other two fled into the forest. The marine took my men into the forest, and returned -- carrying the eyes of the other two beasts. Apparently the eyes are useful for the barbarian woman's medicine. I did not protest their being sent to Port Royal.

I ordered a detail to bury the spiders' corpses out of sight. The town's supplies were decimated, only half the town could survive upon what was left. I therefore took the remaining back to Refugio. I also had an additional tax imposed on the other nearby towns to raise funds to support the unfortunates. The citizens murmured until Newman pointed out that it might soon be them "on the dole" as he called it. Their compliance was not willing, but not rebellious, after that.

I must wonder at Newman. He is but a marine, yet he displays a cool sense that I have heretofore only expected from a commissioned officer of merit. He rallies and calms deftly, with very little force. And he is brave in a way that I fear I shall never know. I do not understand how he has become this way. I have served our King for thirty years, and I have yet to see one common so elevated, let alone having done it myself. It makes me wonder if Norrington's odd manner might not have some worth.

* * *

_From the Log of Captain Marks  
Master and Commander of the Justinian  
Assigned to Montego Bay_

9 -- 7  
I've served King and Country for fifty-four years. I've fought the Spanish, pirates, the French, and occasionally a couple of uppity savages. I've shed so much blood on ships we might as well be related. I am no coward. But this Makai business scares the living piss out of me, and I'm damn glad to have Instructor Williams along for the ride. The man's bloody brilliant. What Makai he doesn't know how to send packing, he can improvise an attack for. Imagine -- firing salt blocks from a canon! I thought he was crazy, but damn if it didn't send that undead krakken straight back to Hell. Brilliant, I say. Norrington's done a cursed fine job with his men. They're leagues beyond my own in both education and literacy. Williams says not a man about Fort Charles doesn't know his letters; something about the importance of all forms of communication being readily to hand. I can't imagine a situation where written orders to a common seaman would be viable, but then again, I never imagined a situation where wolfsbane would save one's life, either.

Oh -- to be proper about this whole ordeal. Yesterday we engaged at Rosario -- a small settlement 3 miles to the East -- an undead krakken and a pair of werewolves. Firing salt from the for'ard canon dispatched the giant squid, and the wolfsbane kept the werewolves at bay long enough for Williams to chop their heads off with a reaping scythe. We then cut their hearts from their bodies and burned them, then scattered the ashes in the sea. I ordered the werewolves bodies buried to keep down the smell. The krakken disappeared. Not a bad show for a batch of greenhorns, if I must say so myself.

9 -- 13  
A giant wolf attacked Dourdansville today. It called itself "Fenrir." Williams said the large green collar about its neck meant it was being controlled. He didn't know much about the beast, so we tried the silver canon shot. When that had no effect, we switched to standard grapeshot. Fenrir could, indeed, swim, and set out to meet us. The army men, of course, had already been eliminated -- those what didn't flee in panic. Though it cost us our rudder, we did manage to dispatch the wolf. The marines and constabulary rounded up the deserting Army personnel, who were duly hung. Most of the town had been destroyed by the time we arrived, and so we took the women and children home with us. The menfolk elected to stay behind and rebuild, in fine English spirit.

* * *

_From the Log of Captain Larsen  
Master and Commander of the Butterfly  
Assigned to Dagmar_

15 September, 1723  
I am not a well-to-do man. I do not come from wealth or privilege or power, and so I fully admit that I am beyond lucky to have reached the rank of captain. I have always taken this luck to be an obligation -- because I am so favored, my bravery and skill must be at their very best. 

These times try both. I remember from my childhood farm that the belted cows we raised used to balk upon first entering the milk parlor. The stool, the sitting human, and the bucket were so far beyond their experience that the heifers would halt, refusing to go forward. They had to be pushed or cajoled, comforted and trained, before they would take that last step forward to the stanchion. I was on the human side of the equation many at time as I was growing. I had never before, I must confess, considered things from the cow's perspective. Now, in the face of these monsters that are so far beyond my ken that I have no words for many of them, I wish I had the luxury of balking. But I do not.

Unlike Captains Mulberry and Zeigler, I do not have the illusion that clinging to old ways will save me. I cannot look the mayor and his daughter (only eight) in the eye and speak the lie that a wooden cross will save them. God forgive me, I cannot give them the false hope that He is the only God; that he is not bound by the mages that forever dulled our world. I cannot say that the Barrier is no barrier to His Grace.

How could I ever live with myself if I did? I wonder how Mulberry and Zeigler live with themselves, looking upon the corpses of those the Makai slay. I can barely live with myself as I bury my own dead, even knowing I did all I could to save them.

The past three weeks have been hard, so hard that I have not until now been able to put pen to paper to describe them. Five of the settlements near Dagmar have been attacked by these Makai: Aurucas, Blackstown, Port au Lis, Jamestown, and Willbury. All the monsters that struck wore blue ropes about feet, hands, and throat. Instructor White says this means some other mage was controlling them. Each attack was the same. The Makai arrived, destroyed much of the town, and waited for us. The Makai fought us, and each time through the knowledge of White and the indisputable bravery of my men, we defeated the monster. Unfortunately, most of the towns were either completely demolished or damaged beyond immediate inhabitability.

Each town's survivors were brought to Dagmar. I am quite proud of the civilians of Dagmar, for they have willingly opened homes and pockets to the displaced. Perhaps they do so hoping that in their hour of need, others will display similar generosity. I pray that they are correct in this hope.

Commodore Norrington believes that there is an overseeing intelligence behind this latest wave of attack. If there is, I do not fathom its strategy. I can only hope that the Fox Commodore does, and has a plan of his own. And I pray to the good Lord that he bends what power He can to the aiding of Norrington and to the protection of Port Royal. If Port Royal falls, I do not hold out any hope for the rest of us.


	9. A Bold Stroke

"What do you have there?"

Norrington looked over his shoulder at Admiral Gloucester. He saluted crisply, then returned his attention to the yellowing map pinned to the wall of his office. It was actually several maps, his entire collection of charts attached to a cork-board backing. Thin, plain, sewing pins were scattered across its surface. Norrington stood before it, his bearing military-straight. The conference table was behind him, a small tray bearing untouched refreshments lay further beyond on a small hutch. Gloucester helped himself to a cup of cold tea and a scone.

"The latest communiques from Dagmar," Norrington said. He added a three pins to the map. "Try as I might, I can't understand our enemies' strategy. They come in, raze the place, and wait for the Navy to arrive. If we don't get there in three days, they move on to the next town and repeat the procedure. It makes no sense."

"Perhaps there is no enemy," Gloucester said, swirling sugar into the tea. "You saw no evidence of planning before."

"There was no regularity before. Starting last year, however, shortly after Admiral Harfeyen's arrival, a definite pattern of escalation began." Norrington tapped the map with one finger, then sketched a circle above the Caribbean. "He's upping the ante, spiraling out from Port Royal. If we just knew why."

"Find what your enemy wants, and there you'll find him," Gloucester said, coming to stand beside Norrington. "I taught you that."

"You did," Norrington acknowledged with a shy smile.

"So, now you teach me something. What do you mean by 'pattern of escalation?'"

"It's something I learned from observing the constabulary. Criminals -- pirates included -- rarely jump full-bore into massive crime. They start with small things in an area they're familiar with, then fan outward with crimes of a greater nature. Knicking apples from the neighbor's tree leads to stealing bread from a shop down the road, then to pick-pocketing in the market, then stealing horses in the next town, then burglarizing houses and so on. If you can intercept the pattern somewhere in the middle, you can extrapolate what he'll do next. We do the same thing in military strategy: first we hit small targets, feeling out our opponent's defenses, then we work our way up to major tactical centers."

"I'm with you so far, though I've never before seen anyone use criminals for inspiration before."

"Know your enemy. Pirates are nothing more than ship-borne criminals," Norrington said. "There has been a steady progression in the frequency and severity of the Makai incidents since last year. Therefore, someone is working up nerve."

The sound of running feet precluded further talk, as Murtogg burst into Norrington's office. He saluted hastily, his breath ragged.

"There's a storm cloud on the horizon," Murtogg gasped. "It's red, and not in a good way." Gloucester and Norrington exchanged looks.

"Rouse the town. Have everyone get inside immediately. And summon Pet -- if anyone can fight a storm she'll know how."

"You find the Doctor, Marine," Gloucester corrected. "I'll handle the Governor." Murtogg nodded, then dashed back out of the doorway. Gloucester followed. Norrington donned his hat and left the room last, wakening the Fort in case that storm cloud housed other nastiness.

* * *

Elizabeth Turner opened her eyes. A chill swept down her spine and back up it, a familiar premonition she'd felt only once before -- the morning before Barbossa's strike.

"Something's happened," Will said, clambering out of bed. He opened the shutters. The marine's cry of warning sounded through the night air. The Turners reacted with the ease of practice: Elizabeth began rushing around the small home securing breakables and anything that could fall. Will doused the forge fires and secured cabinets and shutters with nails. Similar activity was taking place all through the town, making the British warren look more like an ant hill. The fierce sea storms only struck once or twice a year, but when they did strike they were trouble.

"This is Makai doing," Elizabeth said as she and Will crossed paths.

"This isn't the season for it," Will agreed, stumbling and spilling his nails. He swept them up with a curse, then continued to the upper story. Securing the entire house and forge took but half an hour, a personal best. As they huddled in the pantry -- the only room without windows -- they listened as Port Royal became silent and still. The sepulchral quiet hung for but a few moments, then the first whistle of wind whispered through the cracks. The rain followed next, fierce and lashing against the walls and closed wood shutters. Thunder roared overhead, interspersed with a deafening howling.

"That's not thunder," Will murmured. His grip tightened in his pistol, and Elizabeth's on her sword. He slowly unlocked the pantry as the eerie wails grew more distinct. Elizabeth's stomach turned when she realized it wasn't wailing at all that she heard, but cold laughter. The sound of destruction added to the surreal merriment, and then there were wails -- human!

"We have to help!" Will said, reaching for his hammer to undo the nails holding shut the front door, but he needn't have bothered. The door flew apart, splinters flying through the air. The monster before them laughed again. His skin was conflagration, his eyes of endless pits of red, and his clothing was a charred black. The horse he stood on was nearly invisible, so closely did its color match the absence of light. The terrifying beast snorted fire, and his hooves were also fire. The beast pawed the earth, and Will fired. The Makai didn't even flinch. The rain hissed against his heat, and the thing spoke. Elizabeth clapped her ears over the fearsome pulse of it, so much worse than the laughter.

"Speak, Mortal, and I will let thee live," it said, echoing in her heart and her mind. "Fail to speak, and I will take what thee holds most dear. Where be the kitsune Doctor?"

Elizabeth's belly executed another fantastic tumble. She knew where Dr. Hito was -- at Mulholland Falls, four miles from the Fort, investigating the native orchids for possible use to reverse petrification. Elizabeth had shown her the exact spot, one of her favorite places to run away to as a child. Someone must have seen her leave with the doctor and return alone, and told their enemy.

"I don't know," Will said, his lips drawn back in a snarl. "And even if I did I wouldn't tell you."

"True, Mortal, but it was not thee I addressed. Your fair bride, though, knows where the prey might be found."

Elizabeth swallowed.

"Speak, Mortal," the monster said, his hand pointed at Will. "Speak or thy husband's life I'll take."

"W-why do you want to know?" Elizabeth asked. She forced herself not to glance at the street. Her only hope rested on stalling until Norrington's men could arrive with silver and herbs to banish the creature. Herbs she didn't have and salt to purify. Elizabeth realized she was standing before the kitchen table, and she reached behind her, slowly. Salt didn't work against everything, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try if it meant not losing Will.

"My affairs do not concern thee, and the Fox Commodore's men will not save thee. My friends are keeping him busy." Judging by the cacophony sounding from the street, the demon wasn't bluffing. Elizabeth threw the opened salt shaker at the monster. Will dropped like a stone, his hands curled about his chest.

"I am far stronger than your feeble salt," the demon said. "Make your choice." Elizabeth looked wildly about the kitchen for something, anything. Anything but Will's crumpled form. Her breath came in short gasps that were nearly sobs.

"Don't tell him," Will rasped, sweat standing out on his brow. He convulsed again.

"I hold his heart in my hand, fluttering like a caged bird. Where be the Doctor?" the demon asked again, a cruel smile twisting his fiery visage. The horse he rode stamped in excitement.

"Don't tell him," Will reiterated. "If he wants Dr. Hito it is not for good purpose. Don't tell him!" Will shuddered.

"You try my patience."

Elizabeth knew, intellectually, that time stopped for no one. Subjectively, there was an eternity in that second. She had a choice to make. Will was right – whatever they wanted the doctor for, it was to Port Royal’s doom. But not giving in would be Will’s doom.

She had condemned Norrington’s men to die to save Will’s life once before. 

But it wouldn’t just be Norrington’s men this time. It would be the refugees Elizabeth had spent so much time and energy helping, the orphaned children and the battered fishwives and the slaves. All the hamlets and towns surrounding the Port. 

"I don't know," Elizabeth whispered. Will gurgled oddly.

The rain shuddered in midair, then blew another direction. The breeze grew, expanded, and the monster didn't seem to be able to hold his footing. The reddish rain was giving way to a softer drizzle, and the horseman was washing away like spilled paint. The wind stopped, the human screams gave way to sobbing, and Elizabeth's hoarse cry topped all other sound.

* * *

In the cool pulse of night, Lydia Evans was hiding under the bed. It was a childish response to the howling demons cavorting in the streets, but it was all the response she could give. Lydia scowled furiously. If that stupid woman had put her own selfishness aside long enough to show Lydia how to fight Lydia knew she could be out there with Elizabeth Turner. She could be helping to drive the demons away. She could win the respect of the Fox Commodore and silence the socialites' condescending whispers in one fell swoop.

If she could fight. But she couldn't, so instead she hid under the bed while Norrington, his men, and that horrid woman drove the demons away. When the last of the cackling laughter had died away she crawled out from beneath the pine four-post bed to find that she was not alone. Lydia screamed silently and backed away. She grabbed the bed-warmer from the sheets and held it aloft in threat.

Her visitor was an elderly man dressed in a sable-colored cloak with gold runes stitched around hood, sleeve, and hem. His hair was silver, but his skin was blue. In his long-fingered hands he held a silver pendant. 

"Hello, Miss Lydia," the old man said in a gentle, burgundy voice. He stepped closer, his body curling in an oddly swirling gait. "I've come to make you happy."

"Who are you?" Lydia demanded, her voice choked with fear.

"Nothing to fear, Lydia. You've heard the tales of kind fey that grant wishes to the downtrodden? Yes? Well, I am such. Think of me as a godfather: a very powerful godfather who can grant you any desire you choose. It was I, not the Fox Commodore, who drove away the demons who so frightened you. And I can grant you more."

The old man's eyes were gentle. Lydia slowly lowered the bed warmer. On the one hand, the blue man was just as weird as the howling demons. But on the other hand, if he was magical he could kill her where she stood if he wanted to. And he hadn't. The Fox Commodore was a good fighter, but he was no magician. Yet the demons were gone, which led credence to the man's story.

"I can teach you to fight," the old man whispered. Lydia's eyes widened, her mouth dropping open. How had he known what she wanted more than anything? It led credence to his tale of being a fairy godfather. "The Doctor made one just like this," the old man continued, holding aloft the pendant he held in one hand, "long ago. She could make one for you, if she wanted. But she doesn't. For reasons that are... her own. But I have made this for you. Wear it, and you will fight as well as she."

Lydia gasped in vindication and outrage: there had been an easier way, and that horrid witch-woman had withheld it!

"How much does it cost?" Lydia asked, her eyes not leaving the pendant.

"The price of Judas, my dear," the old man said, swirling closer. "The Doctor. The universe does not look kindly on withholding aide from the disadvantaged. Your only hope for respect, recognition, and a life as something more than a brood mare is the art of combat, and Doctor Hito denied you. Justice must be served. This pendant will allow you to put out her candle -- then break this glass," he held up a green vial, "over her body, and I will come collect her."

Lydia set the bed warmer on the quilt and stepped forward. She reached out her hand for the pendant, then drew it back. As tantalizing as the offer was, she really didn't know who this blue man was.

"Oh, dear Lydia, don't be so skittish!" he said. He laughed, a warm and rich sound that warmed her to her toes. "If I wanted to kill you I would have by now. Not, of course, that I would. I only harm the guilty. You're not guilty of anything are you?"

Lydia shook her head.

"Then you have nothing to fear." The old man swirled closer. He took her hand and laid both necklace and vial in her palm. He closed her fingers around the objects and patted her hand. His touch was warm. And then he disappeared.

* * *

Jack Sparrow breathed in the salt sea air, reveling in the wind pushing at his back. The _Black Pearl_ was at her swiftest, singing with the joy of speed. Jack closed his eyes, savoring the hum of timbers and rigging. Then he opened them and with an unspoken apology to the vessel ordered her speed checked. Jack was a good sailor, and no sailor risked his vessel by plowing into port at full tilt without cause.

"Tortuga," Jack purred to Anamaria. "I pity the pour soul that has not breathed in its sweet scent."

"You're in love with that town, not me," Anamaria commented, her weight shifting with the roll of the ship. "I'd just as soon return to the Lemur-People we found on that African island. Now _they_ knew how to party."

"Spoil sport--" Jack began, then stopped. He pulled out his spyglass -- knicked from an obliging Navy captain -- and looked at the town. There was no movement. It was too late in the day for the city's inhabitants to be sleeping off a hangover, especially with port as crammed as it was. There wasn't a spare berth anywhere.

"Mr. Gibbs, every dock is taken. Make for Dead Man's Shoal," Sparrow ordered. The _Pearl_ shifted, deftly turning to her new heading. He looked an Anamaria. "No one's about. Not even the swine." Anamaria scowled.

"This is Norrington's doing."

"I don't think so, love," Jack said, smiling over his concern. "Jamie'd never pass up all those pretty ships. They'd be crewed and sailing under the cross. And think -- all that prize money for a fleet of pirates!" He swished over to the rigging and scaled it. From the crow's nest he took another look at the town. It looked deserted. Jack's curiosity prickled. "We'll walk into town," Jack announced. "But have a boat waiting just off the lee side of that rock there: the granite that looks like a woman's--" he caught Anamaria's glare -- "use your imaginations, mates."

Jack and Anamaria went ashore after the _Pearl_ docked in the hidden shoal, then trekked into town. The walk was hard for legs accustomed to the rolling flatness of a deck. By the time they reached the city they were bathed in sweat.

"We're not soldiers," Anamaria hissed. "We should go back."

"Aww, no fun in that, love," Jack murmured. He peered beyond the bush. There was no sound besides the insects. No animals, domestic or wild, walked the streets. No snores or mumbling broke the still. Jack crept forward to the nearest building and peeked inside. No one sat at the inn's tables or chairs, they were all laying on the floor with a glowing orange jewel above their hearts. Jack looked at Anamaria, who shook her head. Jack nodded to the building again. Anamaria bared her teeth and again gestured her dissent.

Jack went anyway. Anamaria growled, then drew her pistol and followed. Further stealth seemed pointless, so Jack swished in as if he was just in for a drink. He checked the first two men for a pulse.

"They're asleep," Jack announced. It wasn’t a restful sleep – they both looked older for it, not younger.

"I can see that," Anamaria snapped. She holstered her weapon, then reached for one of the jewels. She jerked her hand back with a startled expletive. "It's cursed!" Anamaria announced. Jack set down the rum. He seemed to debate with himself.

"Wait here," Jack announced grandly. "I'm going to the center of town."

"I'm no lackey," Anamaria said haughtily. "I'm going with you."

"Suit yourself, love," Jack said with a florid shrug and a swig of rum, since the entire purpose of his order had been to secure Anamaria's cooperation. Jack swaggered from the bar, and headed down the barren street. The floors of each building were covered in sleeping people as same as the inn had been. All wore the glowing orange jewel above their hearts. They all looked haggard.

"That building wasn't there before," Jack said. Anamaria looked around. All the buildings seemed normal. Jack turned and climbed to the top of one of the brothels. Anamaria again followed, and then saw for herself what Jack had glimpsed between the roof lines.

The town square was gone. Instead a fearsome black tower rose from the ground. It looked like granite, but there was no mortar. It was all one piece. Glass windows spiraled up its walls to the domed roof. The roof's lower edge was rounded in what looked to be ivory tusks capped in red gold. The tower was surrounded by high stone walls topped with spikes. Things moved along the tower's roof, monsters Jack had no name for. They scurried in and out of the tower, and shadows moved along the city's streets. The air suddenly seemed oppressive and a dark terror filled Jack's heart. He looked away from the evil tower, and the fear faded.

"Look away," Jack said only to find that Anamaria had. She made a voudun sign against evil over her heart. Jack followed suit. Feeling exposed, the pirates left the roof and climbed into one of the whores' rooms. Jack chewed the inside of his lip. Part of him wanted to take his ship and flee. The other, more reasonable part of him argued that wherever he went he and his ship weren't safe from the goings-on in that tower. That sensible part also argued that he did not have what it took to throw down that dark citadel.

But he knew someone who did.

"Grab Scarlet, here," Jack said. "We're taking her back with us."

Anamaria gave him a suspicious look. But she did bend to grab the whore's ankles.

They made it to the end of the block before one of the shadows caught up with them. A cold hiss vibrated the air, and the shadow sped toward them. Jack's face contorted in unpleasant surprise. He dropped Scarlet and ran. Anamaria was way ahead of him; how the Hell could that woman run so fast? Anamaria rounded a corner, and Jack ran the other way. 

The shadow followed the Captain. Jack growled, pouring on more speed as he ran for the Sodomite's Daughter. He reached the brothel, jerked open the cellar door, and dived in. The door slammed shut behind him, and Jack locked it. With all the silence he could muster, Jack crept through the cellar to the small, hidden door behind the fourth wine cask from the left of the main door. He popped it open and hid inside. The compartment was the brothel madam's private stash, and as she was most likely sleeping, Jack helped himself. He heard the cellar door open, and felt a chill as the shadow and a friend entered. He peeked through the little door's slats. Between the wine caskets hiding the door from view there was an inch of visibility. He saw the shadows creep by. After a space of silence Jack heard the door leading to the brothel open and close. He grinned naughtily and toasted the shadows.

_You'll have to get up earlier in the morning than that to catch Captain Jack Sparrow_ , he thought, then took a sip of the truly fine brandy. After another space of heartbeats, he saw the shadow pass again through his field of vision.

It seemed like ages before the shadows gave up and left. Jack left his hiding space tucking away a small flask of amontillado. He skulked through Tortuga, avoiding the shadows and strange monkey-like creatures that now patrolled the city. He made it to the granite to find that Anamaria had already taken the boat. No surprise, really. Sparrow crept back through the forest to the _Pearl_.

When he spotted his ship, Jack hid. He took the stolen spyglass out of his pouch and observed the crew. There were no shadows or monsters aboard, and the crew all looked normal -- grieving, but normal. Good men, they were, but silly: he was Captain Jack Sparrow. Jack stood and, as bold as the brass on Jamie's bell, swaggered down to the beach. He heard the gleeful shouts of surprise. He grinned broadly. Jack dove into the water and swam for his ship, catching the lifeline they threw him. When he was sitting safely on the deck, he looked sternly at his crew.

"I thought you were to keep to the Code," he said.

"Well, we were going to, right after the wake," Gibbs replied, grinning and offering a hand. The small Captain let himself be pulled to his feet, then produced the bottle of amontillado. Anamaria rolled her eyes.

"Here's some of that Italian swill you like," Jack announced, "knicked from the Sodomite's Daughter's private stash. Now, set course for Port Royal."

"Aye, Captain. Thankee, Captain-- what?" Gibbs said. 

"That trick with the hurricane? I’ve seen that before. Norrington's a fox-spirit, a bloody cursed powerful one.” Which would have been _excellent_ information to have sitting outside Barbossa’s grotto years ago. “We don’t have the wherewithal to fight our way through whatever’s going on Tortuga, but he does. Don't worry, he’ll cooperate." He flashed Gibbs his best smile.

The _Black Pearl_ stowed her anchor and turned, tacking slowly until it reached the open sea. Then it made a quarter-turn into the wind and opened all sail. The sea breeze caught the canvas and pushed the _Black Pearl_ on.


	10. The Cost of Magic

The first thing Shinarashi had taught Norrington and his men where the Materia Magus, the guiding principles and rules of magic. The Principles outlined the properties of magic, and the Rules outlined the practical application of these properties. There were five of each.

The First Principle was that everything came from something: objects could be turned into other objects, energy could be turned into objects, or objects could be turned to energy. There was no such thing as spontaneous generation. The Second Principle was that magic came in two alignments: white magic worked in harmony with nature, black magic worked against it. The Third Principle was that the universe was elegant: magic and mundane were governed by the same set of unbreakable laws. The Fourth Principle was that the universe was flexible: magic could bend the physical laws for a time, but those laws always reasserted themselves in the end. The Fifth Principle was that the universe had a will beyond human understanding: to attempt to trespass the universal laws was to become an infection that would be burned away.

The First Rule of magic was that everything came with a cost. The energy used for the spell could come from you, other people, or objects, but it had to come from somewhere. The Second Rule was that for each action there was a triplicate and opposite reaction; whatever you cast reflected back at you at three times the intensity. White magic reflected positive consequences on you, black magic reflected negative ones. The Third Rule was that magic was intrinsic: all magics could react upon all other magics, all magics could react upon the mundane, and all mundanities could react upon magic. The Fourth Rule was that all magic was finite: all spells came to an end in time, even the spells the Gods used to make the universe. The Fifth Rule was that magic had a limit: no magic could defy the universe.

Murtogg, by virtue of his nature and ability, had a deeper understanding of the Principles than anyone else in Port Royal. Thus he knew that the storm that passed overhead and drove the red clouds away had to come from something and that that something had expended an enormous amount of energy. He urged his borrowed courier mount to greater speed as they crested the first ridge between Mullholland Falls and Port Royal. When they crested the ridge his horse balked. Murtogg righted himself in the saddle, then froze when he noticed the source of his horse's upset.

The rain-forest was dead. Half a square mile of forest was black, wilted, and barren. He looked to the right and saw that the waterfall's lagoon and the seawater in the nearby cove were also black. Dead fish and sea life floated grotesquely at the top. Murtogg shaded his eyes, barely able to discern a fleck of white in the epicenter of the devastation. A sick feeling twisted Benjamin's gut. He dismounted, tied his jacket around the horse's head, and led her slowly forward. The trusting mare, now blind to the death around her, followed the gentle tug on her bit.

It took him almost an hour to pick through the detritus and decay. When he finally cleared the forest, he wished he hadn't. At the epicenter lay Shinarashi, nearly transparent and completely white from head to toe. Murtogg dropped the reins and scrambled across the sand.

"Don't be dead," he whispered, dropping to his knees beside her and checking for a pulse. "Please, dear God in Heaven, don't be dead." There was a pulse, but he found it after his fingertips sank an inch into her body. Murtogg made a strangled sound and jerked his hand back.

* * *

James Norrington was not a man used to defeat. No matter how bleak the situation, how overwhelming the foe, how protracted the battle: there was always a tactic for victory. Norrington hated it when that tactic eluded him. Now, with the casualty of that failure so dear, the loss was especially bitter. Not that he had the luxury of mourning. Their enemy would not pause and neither could James.

The Commodore removed his hat as he stepped into the darkened Turner home. As was proper, the curtains were drawn. Candles still burned on the table Will's body had lain, though the chairs and lectern had been removed. Elizabeth sat forlornly in a stuffed chair in the main room, her severe black dress bedraggled from several days' wear. Her eyes were stripped of their usual luster. Estrella sat next to her, patting her hand. Norrington was certain that Governor Swann would return shortly, as soon as his meeting with the bankers had concluded. James approached the bereaved figure and waited to be acknowledged. Elizabeth startled, then gestured vaguely to another chair.

"Do sit down, Commodore," she said in a cracked and hallow voice. "I... I do not think Will will need your Doctor anymore, but it was most kind of you to stop by."

"How long have you been awake?" Norrington asked gently. Elizabeth shrugged.

"She hasn't slept more than half an hour at a time since the attack, Commodore," Estrella supplied.

"I see. Bring us some tea, then, Miss," Norrington instructed. The servant woman nodded and left. Norrington looked back at Elizabeth. Could this honestly be the woman who had once defied an entire regiment of marines? Norrington sat silently until Estrella returned. He poured two cups of tea, one for himself and one for Elizabeth. He added sweetener and smoother to both cups, substituting one of Shinarashi's potions for cream in Elizabeth's. He pressed the cup into Elizabeth's hand. To distract her, he told Elizabeth about the refugees and how well the repairs of Port Royal were faring. Elizabeth listened dully, sipping the tea reflexively. Soon Norrington's calm, even voice and the potion took effect. The teacup slid out of her hands and she slumped forward. Estrella screamed.

"Be calm, Miss Estrella," Norrington said, pushing the remains of the shattered cup to the side with his shoe. "It's only a sleeping draught." Norrington bent, picked up Elizabeth's thin body, and then stood. "Lead the way to her bedroom if you please. I will carry here there, and then trust you to put her to bed."

"Oh, yes, Commodore, thank you, Commodore," Estrella said with a curtsy. "I couldn't have got her to sleep myself, for all the Gov'nor and I have tried." She led the way through the small house to the couple's sleeping chambers. Norrington laid Elizabeth on the bed and instructed that he be informed when she awoke. He handed Estrella two shillings, one to pay the messenger and one for her trouble. Estrella dropped another curtsy as the Commodore left.

"I always said he was a fine man," she commented to her unconscious mistress.

Norrington was summoned back to the Turner home a scant two hours later. The draught was potent enough to keep Elizabeth under for at least nine hours, so Norrington correctly assumed he was going to be facing an irate parent instead of an irate patient.

"You drugged my daughter!" Swann sputtered. His wigless face was flushed and his red-shot eyes overbright.

"Yes, Governor, I did," Norrington said in his most martial tone of voice, his arms folded behind his back. "She needed the healing of sleep and was refusing it. You yourself are doing the same."

"Are you threatening to pour one of your witch's concoctions down my throat?"

"You know I don't threaten, Governor Swann," Norrington said firmly. "It was merely an observation."

"No, you don't ‘threaten,’" Swann said bitterly, collapsing on a chair. His bluster collapsed as well, leaving a worried father who was out of options. "Good God, man, what am I to do? If I didn't know the truth, I would never think that woman in there was my daughter. All the life has gone out of her."

"Not gone, Governor," Norrington said, taking a seat next to the older man. He considered his words as carefully as he maintained his clipped bearing: he would not damage the Governor's pride with a show of pity. "Just buried. I've seen this sort of grief before, and if left unchecked the melancholia can become permanent. There is, however, a remedy." Governor Swann looked up hopefully. "A distraction. Something to do to take her mind off the grief, something important enough that she will not lightly set it aside to brood, and significant enough to give her a reason to get up each morning, but light enough to take her condition into account. Emotional stresses are wearying to the female body."

"Do... do you have such a task?" Swann leaned forward, his voice soft. Norrington paused.

"I do," Norrington said. "I would like to set Elizabeth to the task of discovering the pattern in the Makai attacks. It's all paperwork: no information about the attacks would be given her but the statistics. Elizabeth has previously displayed a superior tactical intelligence, and an ability to combine that intelligence with her female intuition. This is no pointless exercise, for Elizabeth would see through such a ploy immediately."

Norrington stopped talking. The gears were turning slowly in the Governor's mind, then picking up speed. The Commodore searched the Governor's face, ready to step in should another nudge be needed. It wasn't.

"Good. Excellent. I leave you to present the task to her, Commodore." Swann's smiled in stiff relief.

"Thank you, Governor Swann," Norrington replied evenly. He saluted, then departed.

* * *

"Is she dying?"

Shinarashi had not been Benjamin's first encounter with things no one else could see. His first encounter had been at age nine, watching as his Aunt convulsed in the center of the room. He had turned to the black-clad figure who had appeared next to him and asked what was going on.

The figure, a man with dark curly hair and darker eyes, had been shocked that a living mortal had addressed him. Ever since the Barrier's construction, no one but the dying had been able to see the creature known in Reikai as Lord Death. In Ningenkai he was called the Dark Angel, the Dullahan, the Grim Reaper, and countless others. Both faithless and sacred, cynical and flamboyant, Lord Death had turned to the boy who regarded him with fearless eyes and told him the truth.

"She is dying, and I have come to take her to Death. Thereafter she belongs to her God." Lord Death's voice was completely without reverence, bordering on disdain. "I am Lord Death."

"That's your name?" young Benjamin had asked. The end of life was not the same for him as it was for normal children. He could see and had the spirits leave their bodies and take the hand of a man wearing ancient leather armor and two swords strapped to his back -- the man he now spoke to. Death wasn't an ending to Benjamin.

"It is my title. If a mortal knows my name -- the name I wore when I was a man like you -- then he can control me completely."

"Oh," Benjamin had said. "I'm Benjamin Murtogg." He had then offered a handshake the Dark Angel. It had been the start of an long and deep friendship, Lord Death always treading the line between disclosure and the laws governing his Kingdom.

Now Benjamin again asked Lord Death that fateful question.

"Is she dying?"

"In a sense," Lord Death said softly. There were souls in Port Royal, souls he needed to collect. But he would give Benjamin what time he could. "For a natural-born kitsune, staying in this world takes effort. Shinarashi used so much of energy on the storm that she's barely able to maintain her presence. Putting her in seawater will make it easier. Putting her in the Fort -- a creation of wood and rock -- will dissolve her completely."

Benjamin fretted, chewing on his lip. He was absent without leave. He needed to return. But he couldn't leave Shinarashi. She'd die, return to Reikai, who knew what, without him.

"You have to go to Port Royal," Murtogg said tightly. "There are stray souls there. If you don't get them, a soul-eater or the Dark Ones will. I understand. But while you're there, please ask one of the hippocampi to tell the Fort Shinarashi was wounded banishing the Storm Demons and I am seeing to her. It will be a while before Shinarashi is ready to travel, but I'll return as soon as I can."

Lord Death nodded once, then disappeared.

Slowly and gently, Murtogg draped Shinarashi's half-present form on the mare's back. He tied her there, the ropes sinking nearly a full inch into her form before they connected with anything solid. The mare danced, unhappy with the new feeling. But blinded as she was, she accepted Murtogg's lead.

It was slow going, but at last Murtogg reached seawater that wasn't black with the stink of death. He untied the Doctor and carried her into the waves. She murmured something incomprehensible as the salt tang of the sea washed over her. The mare began munching on some appetizing vegetation. Assured his mount would not leave, Murtogg waded out as deep as he dared. Shinarashi floated, weightless in the warm Caribbean water. Benjamin held her to him with one arm. Her hair undulated in the current. Benjamin petted softly, waiting for some sign of response. She was still pale and ethereal.

It was so silly. So stupid. Norrington had virtually unlimited power, but his experience and skills were so green he was as much danger to his own men as he was to the enemy. Shinarashi's experience was a weapon all its own, and her power was barely a tenth of the Commodore's. If only they could find a way for Shinarashi to draw energy from Norrington!

Benjamin would gladly take being drained to death if it meant Shinarashi would just regain opacity.

"Come on, Shinarashi," he murmured. "Don't leave us now."

Benjamin waited as the sun sank toward the horizon. As the ruby glow of sunset bathed the waves, Benjamin headed toward shore. He left Shinarashi in the water, just high enough on the beach not to be washed away. He started a fire and tied up his mare for the night. Darkness fell. The salty water dried uncomfortably on his clothes, but he didn't notice. All he noticed was Shinarashi's cold and vaporous form when he dragged her ashore and wrapped himself around her. Benjamin shivered, but Shinarashi didn't move.

* * *

Norrington had lost a Governor; Swann was too preoccupied with Elizabeth to focus on Port Royal. He had lost two allies; Will was dead and Elizabeth was barely functional. He was had lost two surgeons; he had finally received word from Murtogg via hippocampus that Shinarashi was apparently too wounded to return to the Fort, and Benjamin couldn't leave her. Nor could Norrington go to her himself. He was playing Governor while Gillette played Commodore, and Worley was on his own. Shinarashi's injury had squelched the new men's doubts about her, but that was scarce comfort.

It reminded him of a riddle he'd been asked as a child: how do you eat a whale?

One bite at a time.

His first "bite" of his seeming insurmountable tangle was Elizabeth. With the return of Elizabeth would come the return of Swann, and with the return of Swann Norrington could return to Fort Charles, thus freeing the nearly frantic Andrew to check on the Fort's two greatest tactical advantages.

And so he stood at the door of Elizabeth Turner's parlor. She was propped up on the chaise lounge with a quilt and a cup of tea. An empty bowl of soup sat next to her on a small table. The sleeping draught had put her under for nine hours, and her body had added to it another seven. She had awoken so ravenous that not even grief could kill her appetite.

"You drugged me," the Widow Turner commented blankly. Her hands were folded listlessly on her lap. 

"You needed the sleep," Norrington said calmly. He entered and took a seat on one of the chairs. "And I have need of a favor." Elizabeth raised challenging eyebrows. Norrington handed her the sheaf of records and maps. "The attacks. The pattern of escalation tells us there is a defining intelligence behind them, but what that intelligence gains from this strategy I cannot fathom. You have an intuitive grasp of tactics I don't possess. I hope that you will succeed where I have failed."

"You want me to analyze the random? After losing my husband and still in mourning?"

"They're not random," Norrington replied earnestly. "The attacks are too well-executed. There must to be a pattern. Please, Mrs. Turner. If we can't find a pattern in where he's been, we'll never be able to anticipate him, and without anticipation we have no hope of victory. I'm down a surgeon, a surgeon's mate, a Governor, and the finest blacksmith I've ever seen. Asking Sparrow is impossible. I need you." The words were unusually frank for him, more along Will's line of argument than his own. But they worked. Elizabeth's face became pinched. She rifled through the papers.

"They wanted to know where she was," Elizabeth said softly after a few moments. "Your Doctor. If I told them, they'd let Will live. I didn't." Tears started dripping down her nose. Norrington held out a handkerchief. 

"It was very... noble of you. You did your duty." Norrington could think of no greater balm for her wounds. 

Elizabeth began sobbing in earnest, and threw herself into the arms of the only human comfort available. Norrington patted her back awkwardly. It was all he knew how to do. It was all he needed to do.

After several long moments, Elizabeth collected herself.

"Thank you, Commodore," she said, folding the snotty handkerchief. Her voice was rough and thick. "I must... I must apologize for losing control so. I know he was your pupil as well as my husband." She hefted the papers. "I will give this my best effort."

"That's all anyone can ask, Mrs. Turner." Norrington stood and bowed in farewell. "Thank you."

Norrington nodded to Swann as he passed. The old man smiled in wan hope. It was sad, Norrington thought, that wan hope was all the hope anyone could muster anymore.

* * *

Elizabeth did not give the analysis her best effort. She threw herself into the work with a zeal Norrington would envy, using the work as a shield. When she was poring over lists and maps, she wasn't thinking about Will. When she wasn't thinking about Will, she wasn't hurting. She looked at her information from every possible angle, adding the new reports to her read and re-read pile. Some night she didn't know if she cried over Will or the way the answer dangled just past her fingertips, if she stayed awake all night because she couldn't sleep without Will's breath in her ear or out of a sense of urgency. Sacrifice or revenge, running to battle or running away, Elizabeth didn't know. All she knew was that like Tantalus, she had a doom over her head and a reward just out of reach. 

The work was her lifeline. Norrington's daily visits with new information or to check her progress, or even to bring her some of that delightful oolong tea, were the only reason to get out bed in the morning. She couldn't give in to melancholy in the afternoons because she had to incorporate new information or new insights into her notes. Sleep couldn't elude Elizabeth because after a solid day of analysis her brain felt like oatmeal and her eyelids like sand.

And in the pauses, the moments when she was neither working nor sleeping, she missed Will. She missed Will and blamed Dr. Hito for being a target, hated the enemy who had ordered Will's death, and worried that Will's death would be in vain and Dr. Hito would die anyway. Emotions turned and writhed on her, a dogfight of impulse and questions in her soul. She searched for answers in the maps, in the refugees she wandered among like a ghost of mercy, in standing like Medusa's courtier as Murtogg carried the whitewashed and unconscious woman from his horse to infirmary. She looked in Murtogg's dark eyes and dirty uniform, in the way he'd let no one else carry Dr. Hito, in Norrington's aged face and Gillette's fretful worrying of his hat, and in Gloucester's silence and her father's unsmiling visage.

Elizabeth looked, but the answers never came.


	11. The Price of Judas

Shinarashi was floating. Weightless and free, she drifted in the pale white energy of the Barrier, both foreign and welcoming. The pale grey of Death and the unfailing weight of Ningenkai were behind her. Home was before her, if a place she had not seen in over two hundred years could be called home. She could see the hole in the Barrier, a prismatic display perforating the pristine white. All she had to do was press forward and release, and she would be through it. No more would she struggle each day for substance, no more would she be...

What wouldn't she be?

Something held her bound to this mortal plane. Like ropes of gold, these two things she could not be rid of. What were they?

A duty. And a bond.

Slowly, she floated away from the barrier, slipping back into this form and these desires, into the name she had taken and then remade. Shin-no-arashi no longer meant "storm of death," but the coming of healing. No longer was her partner Numair the Mage, but--

"Benjamin," Shinarashi croaked at the frayed man on the stool beside her bed. Brown eyes fluttered open and his spine jerked straight.

It was given to kitsune to forget. Shinarashi did not know of a time when Man had not made her remember.

"Here," Benjamin whispered, pouring wine in a glass and holding it to her lips. "Drink this. There's broth, here, too." The wine was exchanged for the broth, then set the bowl set aside. Shinarashi wrinkled her nose. The broth was over boiled and the wine warm. She told herself it was better than nothing.

"Welcome back," Murtogg murmured, smiling far too broadly. "I thought I'd lost you." He reached out and stroked two fingers across her cheek. Shinarashi blinked owlishly. She was so tired. Just once in two centuries, she wanted to be able leave a form and all its cares behind, as was her birthright.

"Can't leave," she murmured thickly. Benjamin paused, then leaned forward, slowly. He hesitantly brushed his lips against Shinarashi's. It was different than the last time she'd received this mouth-touch. Gentler. More sweetness than passion, a low warmth instead of brilliant vibrance. It was good. Shinarashi did not think she could withstand much more tumult than this. She cared about Benjamin, he was dearer to her in many ways than Norrington and Gillette.

But she remembered. And like Ningenkai, the memory weighed upon her.

"Kitsune takes a bride," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the curtained alcove. "It's a human saying. Rain on a clear day. The wedding vow is the most sacred, the most personal. A kitsune's, the saying goes, is empty. Like rain without the clouds. Short-lived and empty." Shinarashi felt the tears rise to her eyes, and the harder she fought them, the more they fell. Benjamin moved to sit next to her on the cot. He picked her up and cradled her, grateful he'd strung up curtains for privacy. No one would see her yield to fatigue and fall apart. Those that heard would chalk it up to laudanum. Not that he'd given Shinarashi any, but only he knew that. 

"We-- I-- My family lived outside a village, everyone knows that," Shinarashi whispered between silent sobs. "My parents, sisters, brothers, their mates and children. Twenty of us, all told. We gave the village our word we would not harm them. We took only the bare minimum of energy we needed from the sea, mostly from the fish we caught. We drained their energy and then sold them to the village for funds to buy what else we needed. As we promised, we did not hunt for energy among them. No fox madness. No fox dreams. We did not even ask for kitsune udon.

"I-- University’s the closest word, but it’s not quite right. The ‘learning centers’ taught all the sciences and magecraft both. They were also the research centers for discovering new science and magic. There was a researcher there, not one of my teachers, nothing like that, but he was there and so was I and we met--"

"You fell in love," Benjamin murmured. His heart felt caught in a capstan. Of course Shinarashi was taken -- weren't they always? Taken, or preferred someone else.

"Numair chose me freely. And I chose him. But the humans thought that I had-- that my family had shown its true colors at last. They killed them all. After that we decided to... punish mortal man for what they had done. The Storm of Death did not work alone. And then the priests came and imprisoned me. Before Numair could find me -- he was half-way through the spell that would have broken the curse, can you believe it?" Shinarashi barked, something between a laugh and a sob. "The Barrier swept him away. I don't even know if he's dead or alive-- but I gave my word. Till death breaks the bond. I hate the choices we made, what he did and probably still would, what I was, and I couldn't--" Shinarashi hiccuped. "But I gave-- if he's still alive and I am-- My word isn't like cloudless rain!"

"Shinarashi..." Murtogg breathed. So this was it -- the secret she'd kept buried, the immobile obstacle that kept her from selecting anyone, neither Gillette nor Norrington, not himself, none of the smitten, randy, woman-starved sailors who had tried their wiles. Shinarashi was bowed forward, her face pressed into the starched white of Murtogg's uniform. Benjamin remembered that desperate bow, bent over the prayer rail trying to atone-- atone as if life was no more to God than a ledger of sins and penances -- for everything he wasn't and was. "Even if he's not dead, you are. You're not the person you were when you swore to him. And even the Church allows women who've lost husbands at sea to remarry after four years or so. A century is twenty times that. Be reasonable with yourself."

How often had Shinarashi heard that phrase from Andrew's lips, a desperate entreaty when Norrington had set himself standards no man could reach?

How often had she herself used those words to decry the eternal, deliberate blindness society demanded of men like Andrew? Senseless and cruel, hadn't those been her words for the way he trained himself not just to say "no," but to not even think "yes?"

Shinarashi lifted her head, regarding Benjamin with wild eyes. It wasn't possible, was it, that the three of them could all be such fools. Was Theodore the only reasonable one among them? Theodore, who was free in a way most men only dreamed of; who could chase both whore and socialite, who could praise the man who'd outwitted him without bitterness.

Shinarashi reached up and caressed Benjamin's cheekbones and bristly beard. What wasn't there couldn't tempt her. But if... if what Benjamin and Andrew -- and even she herself -- said was true... He was handsome, dark hair and kind eyes, and a fine man in every way Numair hadn’t been. 

Shinarashi leaned forward and pressed her mouth to Benjamin's, wrapping her arms around his waist. She closed her eyes in fierce concentration. The details of Benjamin's taste, texture, the bristle of his beard against her skin, and the heady duo of scent and pheromones blended together into one collective sensation. For a brief, wild moment the exhaustion that had plagued her since forming Gloucester's fleet fell away, along with the ever-present guilt.

She hadn't attainted her freedom with the dissolution of the curse. From the moment she'd cried over the Commodore’s apparent death until now, she'd been living backwards; her future forever trying to erase her past. 

Shinarashi broke the kiss. The energy faded and the reality of her depletion settled back upon her.

"I've always loved you," Benjamin whispered. "Even when you were a fox."

Shinarashi nodded into his shoulder.

Benjamin tilted his head to rest his cheek against Shinarashi's crown. She fell asleep, and he tucked her gently into bed. When he could control his smile, he went to report Shinarashi's improvement to the Commodore.

* * *

The Navy had never appealed to Sparrow. The regimented existence, the constant supervision, the unwavering demands fulfilled in exchange for no thanks and little pay -- he cringed at the thought. Even the bastard children of the Navy, the privateers, repelled him. Jack Sparrow did as he pleased, when he pleased, which was why he'd failed so miserably working for a merchant company. 

Now that he had the Isla del Meurta treasure, he was truly free. He was bound neither to trade routes nor to theft. No longer did he have to fight the uphill struggle to enforce rules that had cost him a crew, not that this crew would be eager for torture, rape, or murdering the surrendered.

Jack Sparrow was a pirate in name only.

But that didn't make him a hero. Braving all and hastening to the rescue was _not_ his perversion. This was a one-time exercise that had nothing to do with sacrifice. If allowed to continue, the darkness in Tortuga would eventually rob Jack of his freedom. The only way to preserve his freedom was, therefore, to defeat the master of the tower. Defeating the mastermind behind Tortuga's tower was beyond his abilities. It was not beyond the abilities of the "Fox Commodore." Ergo, as Norrington would say, the only way to get what Jack Sparrow wanted was to get Norrington to do it.

That did not, as he'd explained to Anamaria at least a hundred times, make him a hero. It made Norrington a useful pawn. There was a difference.

Even if Anamaria refused to admit it.

Gibbs understood, though. Good man. Whether Cotton understood or not was anyone's guess, and Quarteto figured that anything scary enough to give Anamaria pause was far outside his abilities.

He'd held that opinion even before he'd seen the Tower's minions.

He still held it. Jack did, too.

Privately, in thoughts buried so deep the crew would never think he had them, Jack wondered if they would even make it to Norrington and his devoted crew. They were running on nothing as it was: spare masts gone and trees put up in their places, the spare sails patched and re-patched, the jibs and staysails spliced together to make topsails. A journey of four days had taken almost four weeks. Hugging the shoreline and hiding at night cost enough time as it was, without the battles and pauses for repair.

Whatever was in that Tower didn't want him reaching Port Royal, which made Jack all the more determined to get there.

Now, if only he could stave off possibly mutiny that long. Jack was not fool enough to believe his crew wouldn't turn on him -- you could only be that stupid once in your life.

"We should give up," Anamaria said harshly, loudly. Jack closed his eyes with the same forced patience he'd once used on Will Turner. "Turn back. This is insane!"

"And do what? Hm?" Jack snapped. "Hide? Those things find us as soon as we're under the open sky. And if you think that Tower'll let us live knowing what we know, you've not been paying attention." Jack turned the sail on his lap to reach a new tear.

"What do we know?" Anamaria bellowed. "Nothing! You're getting us killed for _nothing_." Anamaria’s eyes narrowed and her voice became cutting. "Or is it all for your Commodore?"

Jack looked up from his sail, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"I serve. No man," he snarled from somewhere in his chest. Anamaria took a step back, surprised by Jack's vehemence. Jack returned his attention to his sail. Anamaria slunk away. Jack paused in his stitching, then tied off the thread. He would never again bend knee to another man, not even the king. 

Didn’t change the fact Elizabeth had been a fool to choose Will over Norrington. He'd thought so then, in spite of his liking for the young Turner, and he thought so still. The intensity in those green eyes when the Commodore had declared he served others, as if that was the only truth that mattered -- as if there _was_ such a thing as truth -- still set fire to Jack’s fantasies. Will's headstrong declarations were brighter, more easily seen. But Norrington's passion would last long after Will and Elizabeth had tired of each other. 

And besides, Norrington was damn pretty: sharp fox features and sly wicked smile. Jack had never met a trickster of any species who could hide it half as well. Jack would have sworn on his mother’s grave the Commodore was human. He was easily as pretty as Elizabeth, in Jack's opinion. Jack considered his opinion worth a lot, considering his ample expertise.

Jack craned his neck to measure the sun. He had about another hour of high sun left. After that he'd be vulnerable to the next volley of wraiths, ghouls, and whatever else the Tower felt like throwing at him. Jack smiled. But this time, they'd be ready.

"Mr. Gibbs, bring out all the oakum we've got left," Jack ordered, "and pile it inside whatever metal we've got."

Gibbs didn't so much as pause before turning and bellowing orders. He was a good man, one of few men Jack trusted not to turn on him. If the crew did mutiny and maroon him, he'd at least have a companion. Jack looked at the sun again, walked over to the wheel, and had Cotton adjust their course a few points to starboard.

Then he waited.

* * *

Lydia stood serenely outside the infirmary. She wasn't tense or nervous -- the locket worked just as the blue man had said it would. She could handle the pathetic refugees and the mortal guards, just as she'd handled the toughs in back alley streets. She could handle anything now. And all without pointless drills or painful muscles.

The locket was the greatest treasure she'd ever seen.

And now it was time to pay for it.

Getting inside was easy enough. She wanted to apologize for harsh words spoken, she'd told the guards, just in case Shinarashi died. She didn't want to live with knowing she'd had the chance and passed it by. A show of tears, a flash of cleavage, and she was admitted. Now all she had to do was wait for the Commodore to leave the curtained bed. A break of the vial and she'd leave claiming Shinarashi was asleep.

Lydia looked around the infirmary, her nose wrinkling at the copper tang of blood. What a depressing place this was. No wonder Shinarashi was so flat and humorless, spending as much time here as she did. It also explained Norrington's stiff demeanor. They were perfect for each other, really. 

Norrington pulled back the curtain and stepped through the opening. He frowned at Lydia, then opened the curtain again with a perfectly polite greeting. Lydia curtsied. She was disappointed. In her fantasies, she had trounced her old teacher in battle before delivering her to her enemies. A dying woman in a sickbed wasn't worth the fight. She certainly couldn't be worth the blue man's fascination, but to each his own.

Then the oilcloth dropped behind her. Lydia gasped, seeing for the first time Shinarashi's black ears.

Shinarashi's eyes flew open, and with surprising speed she quashed her pillow down over her crown. But the damage was done.

"We all have our secrets," Shinarashi said in her most Norrington-like tone.

So that was why the blue man wanted her. She was one of them.

Not that it mattered. She'd do anything to keep her locket. With her locket she could do anything: steal a fortune, even kill her uncle. Anything. The world was hers, and if the woman who'd deliberately kept it from her had to face the music for it, well then. That wasn't her problem.

Lydia pulled the vial from her pocket.

"I brought a gift," she lied, "to apologize." She held out the vial. Shinarashi's nose twitched. Lydia stepped closer. "It's a potpourri. You break it and it smells lovely. You need it here." Shinarashi's eyes widened, her mouth opened--

Lydia did not allow her a cry of alarm. She broke the vial and tossed it onto the other woman's lap. Shinarashi dropped her pillow, her ears were flat against her skull, but even as she picked up the vial she was disappearing. The first sound of her cry fluttered on the air, but she was gone. Lydia waited a few moments, then covered her locket with one hand.

It was over.

Lydia left the curtained alcove, mimed sleep to the guard at the door, and left Fort Charles.


	12. Come Together, Torn Apart

Jack's greatest skill was turning a disadvantage into an advantage. None of this other talents: seduction, gambling, theft, seamanship, swordsmanship, brawling, nor manipulation came near to reaching the heights of his unrivaled grasp of tactics. Not even the strategic thinking of Norrington could fully counter it.

Jack had planned for the smoke from his fires to summon the _Surprise_ or the _Stargazer_. With Norrington thus brought to the mountain as it were, several harrowing days would be cut from his journey, even if it was more likely than not he would spend that journey in the brig. But instead of Norrington's ships, Refugio's _Seraphina_ responded to the pillars of smoke. His subsequent capture and arrest were certainly disadvantages.

Sitting in the cell opposite his alternatively furious and sullen crew, Jack let none of his consternation seep past his carefree demeanor. Instead, he pretended to be pretending not to notice the young Midshipman staring at him in starstruck wonder. As much as Jack reveled in recognition, this Midshipman was of particular interest. He was standing next to the keyring.

"If you make a painting, the image'll last longer," Jack said with just the right amount of derision and boredom. He sat up slowly, gracefully. "You won't see me again." Just the right amount of snarl and the perfect overtone of purr. The infamous Jack Sparrow didn't care about silly things as dungeon bars. 

The Midshipman jumped guiltily.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Midshipman Jones," the boy stuttered. "Are you really Jack Sparrow?"

"I am," Jack said. He kept his voice even and deep. A bite at a time, just like eating an elephant. Awe made one transparent enough to hand over leverage, if it didn't lead to outright compliance.

"Really? On your on honor?" he whispered.

"No honor amongst thieves," Jack said coyly. Strung along, young Jones took another step. Jones stepped closer again, almost to the door. His question -- whatever question he'd wanted to ask the famed Jack Sparrow from the moment he'd taken up sentry duty -- roiled inside him.

"What was he like?" Jones said in a rush. "The Fox Commodore. Instructor Williams says you served on the same boat as him during the attack on the Isla, and he said you were even close enough to kiss during your escape."

Oh, that hurt. That hurt even more than his crew's sudden and cacophonous laughter.

Jack drooped, curling away from the bars to slouch on his bunk.

"He's got a bloody tree shoved up his arse," Jack growled.

"Aw, don't mind his foul temper, lad," Gibbs said jovially as Jones frowned and backed away. "You've wounded his pride. He thought it was his fame what was blindin' you."

"Well, I have heard of him. That's what makes it all the more impressive that the Fox Commodore caught him."

"And then he lost me," Jack groused.

"Oh, honestly," Jones scoffed. "Everyone knows he let you go."

"Let me go!" Jack bellowed indignantly, nearly drowning out his crew's renewed laughter. "I escaped right under his nose!"

"He let you go," Jones said firmly. "Because the Governor allowed it. If it weren't for that he'd've seen you hung."

Jack collapsed back on the bunk.

"When Hell freezes over."

"And he'll see you hang now," Jones said with certain satisfaction. "We're bringing you to Port Royal for trial."

"Why not hang me in Refugio, eh?" Jack asked bitterly. "Want to parade your triumph and earn a crumb of praise from your little lace godling?" Which was hardly fair or accurate, but it felt good to say. Jones frowned again with the full weight of his Naval training.

"Because as the commander of the fleet, we have to report to him a capture of this magnitude. Also, his is the right to hang you." A pipping call sounded down the stairs, and Jones left to answer it. Jack sat up slowly. The roll and pitch of the deck was completely unlike the _Pearl_ 's, but Jack grinned anyway.

Everything was proceeding exactly as he had foreseen.

* * *

Commodore James Norrington was in a towering fury. 

Somehow, in the small breadth of time Murtogg had taken off for the trivial activity of sleep, an entire Fort full of trained Navy personnel had managed to let the enemy invade the Fort, subdue the already weakened Shinarashi, kidnap her, and disappear without leaving so much as a hair behind. That kind of clean-up took time. Time for the men Port Royal's safety depended on to notice. Hell, even time for a hapless civilian to stumble upon the wrongness of the situation and cry alarm. 

_Time for someone, somewhere in this maddening den of ineptitude to bloody pay attention to a cabal that didn't belong here!_ Norrington thought viciously, writing with far more force than necessary. His usually pristine handwriting was sharp and exaggerated. Assuming, of course, a group had been involved. He was inclined to discount the idea it wasn't. Both Shinarashi and Murtogg had informed him that his presence provided a sort of shielding that prevented the precise scrying needed to locate a single person for transport, a combination of kitsune invisibility and his human blood. Norrington still didn't completely understand the mechanics behind the spellwork, but he did understand that magical kidnapping was impossible inside Port Royal without a beacon. That meant that someone or a group of someones had to have either taken Shinarashi away or brought such a beacon to her.

Either way, the security of the Fort had been compromised and no one had noticed. The obliviousness was sin enough, but because of it Norrington had lost his single greatest tactical advantage. And a friend.

His anger could not be described. It could barely be contained. The anger reddened his cheeks and sharpened his voice. The old hands cowered from his rare fury and blamed the new hands. The new hands pitied themselves their posting: Norrington controlled his fury, but Gillette had no such compunctions. He lashed out freely with tongue and hand, drilling his men on magical disguise until they heard it in their sleep. Norrington made no move to rein him in. It was all he could do not to make a few remarks himself.

But as angry as he was at his men, he was more angry with himself. Elizabeth had told him the demons who had killed Will had wanted Shinarashi's whereabouts. What had he been thinking to allow something as trivial as delicacy prevent him from placing a constant guard inside Shinarashi's alcove? He was a fool once for thinking the threat to Shinarashi was over because the Storm Demons had been killed, and a fool twice to hold to an ideal that had already proven itself worse than useless. Women were not more fragile than men, at least in a mental sense. Elizabeth had taught him that.

She was still teaching him that. Elizabeth worked with as much zeal as any man; dancing numbers, patterns, and possibilities. She read the statistics of wounded and dead without flinching, even with that distress heaped upon her own loss. The widow Turner was holding a stiff upper lip enough to make any Englishman proud. Norrington was proud of her, at any rate. Even Gillette respected her capacity to set the personal aside in favor of the greater good.

"I've tried everything," Elizabeth growled. Norrington jerked, his wandering thoughts pulled sharply to task. "I've spent all morning using Descartean analysis, and I still can't find a pattern. Whoever is orchestrating these attacks is either a genius or a madman." She set a tray onto Norrington's desk before dropping into one of the chairs. The tray held a tea service. "You did not come to me, so I thought I would come to you."

Norrington closed his eyes and rubbed his face. The fatigue was starting to tell, clearly.

"I apologize, Mrs. Turner," he growled with frustration matching hers. "We were running drills on magical disguise and I... forgot. It was most rude of me."

"It was," Elizabeth said dryly. "But you are forgiven."

Norrington smiled wanly. Elizabeth's mood had improved hundredfold since those first days after the funeral. Work was good for her. 

A knock at the doorway halted any further conversation.

"Commodore!" Gillette exclaimed, excitement written across his features. "The _Seraphina_ 's arrived. They caught Sparrow!"

"What?!" Elizabeth and Norrington exclaimed in unison. Norrington gave Elizabeth a look reminding her of her civilian status, then demanded a report from Gillette.

"The great bloody idiot lit fires just shy of Refugio," Gillette said with a wicked grin. "The _Seraphina_ chased off the Gore Crows and apprehended her. The ship's in frightful shape. Trees for masts, staysails for tops'ls, no additional shot nor powder -- even the poorest merchant keeps a better ship."

Norrington and Elizabeth exchanged looks. Jack Sparrow's first and deepest love was his vessel. With a cave full of treasure there would be nothing that could keep him from lavishing the best and finest upon her -- neglect was an impossible explanation for the _Pearl_ 's disrepair. The only other explanation was action, which was equally unlikely. Even with perforated sails the _Black Pearl_ was the fastest ship in the Caribbean. What Sparrow couldn't fight, he was more than capable of escaping. What he couldn't escape, he could sneak past -- so why light fires?

Unless...

"I underestimated Sparrow twice, Captain," Norrington said briskly. He set aside his teacup and stood. "The first it cost me a ship, the second it cost me my men. I shall not do the same again. Mr. Sparrow is in the brig?"

Gillette nodded, duly chastened. Norrington crossed the Fort briskly and descended the stairs to the Fort's prison. Sparrow was in one cell, his crew in the other. Norrington approached Sparrow's cell.

"Jamie!" Sparrow said with a brightness he usually reserved for whores. "Just the man I wanted to see--"

"Before we commence trading lies for insults," Norrington said, holding up a forestalling hand and gentling the stern timbre of his voice, "there is something I must say. It is my duty to inform you that William Turner has died." Norrington stood as he would for the family of a dead sailor. "He died an honorable death defending this city from harm. I am sorry for your loss." 

Jack staggered, leaning against the bars for support. The crew bowed their heads and drew together, mourning both a friend and an ally they'd counted on to get them out of the noose.

"Pirates?" Jack asked angrily. He'd hunt them down, if that were the case. They would wish Norrington was on their tail for the fury Jack would rain down on them.

"Storm Demons," Norrington said.

Demons. 

Monsters.

"The Tower," Jack said aloud. He could feel it like a change in the weather. "In Tortuga. It's taken over and put the townsfolk in a cursed sleep. Nasty doings in that Tower, luv. Nasty enough to reach here."

"I... see." The Commodore could smell no deception in Sparrow. He turned away, thinking. Then he turned to the guards. "Have Mr. Sparrow brought to my office and see that his men are fed. Also, send a messenger to Governor Swann telling him I shall be visiting him this evening." The guard saluted. 

Norrington looked over at the second cell for a long moment.

“Mr. Gibbs,” he said with that same gentled sternness. “Mrs. Turner told me you were sailing with Sparrow now.”

“Yes, Commodore,” Gibbs’ arm made a jerking motion like an aborted salute thought the better of.

“I do not see Mr. Ellis among your company.”

Gibbs shifted uncomfortably, blinking quickly. “Didn’t make it, sir. Two years after we left. Scurvy.”

“Ah,” Norrington said, lowering his eyes. “Then my condolences to you as well, however belated.” Norrington nodded to his prisoners in farewell, then left the brig.

* * *

Jack was escorted by two marines to Norrington's office. He could hear an argument carrying on inside.

"Commodore, I protest," said a voice Jack didn't remember. "Hanging a man as notorious as Jack Sparrow would boost the morale of the entire detachment! It would give the civilians confidence, make them believe in our ability to protect them."

"And rob us of whatever knowledge Sparrow possesses in his rum-soaked brain while simultaneously eliminating a man who hasn't been a threat for two years. Mr. Schwansee, I am not in the custom of justifying myself to my Lieutenants. Admiral Gloucester has entrusted me with the day-to-day running of this fleet. My orders may be quite unorthodox, but they are also quite effective. You are a military man. You are a sailor. You _will_ follow orders. If you cannot, please inform me and I will appoint someone else to take your place. Dismissed."

There was an icy silence, then a furious-faced Lieutenant exited Norrington's office. Another, smaller Lieutenant stood at the end of the hall. Jack didn't like him. The two lieutenants departed, and Jack entered the office. The pirate had never seen this part of the fort before and made no pretense at not looking around.

"Nice chap," Jack said, his manacles clinking as he helped himself to a sugar cube. Norrington waved the marines away. "Hate his lot," Jack commiserated. "So stuck on their beans and trees that they couldn't see the forest to save their souls."

"Indeed," Norrington said. He gestured for Sparrow to take a seat. Jack obliged, smiling when a mug was produced from seemingly nowhere. He executed at magnificent face-fault when he looked inside and found only tea.

"This is a time for sobriety," Norrington said. "Now, tell me all you can about the Tower."

"In exchange for...?" Jack asked. He took a sip of the tea. It was strong and black. Good, but not rum.

"Not being hung of course," Norrington said crisply. "You doubtlessly heard Schwansee's protests."

Jack waved an airy hand. No sense denying the obvious, especially since his goal was to manipulate the Commodore into killing for him. Jack described what he knew about the Tower and its occupants. He kept the location of the cove to himself, as well as the more mundane details of his escape. Norrington took notes. The showman in Jack enjoyed having such an attentive audience. After Jack finished, Norrington tapped the end of his quill against the paper.

"It's not much," Norrington murmured. "But it would seem to support your hypothesis that the Tower is the base of operations for our phantom master." Norrington stood and walked to the window. Jack pocketed one of the silver baubles from his desk.

After a moment, Norrington turned back around.

"You present a problem, Sparrow. The information you provided is enough for a stay of execution. But I can't let you go -- not openly. Not again." Norrington rested a hand on the back of his chair. "Not with what I have. To secure your freedom, we would have to reach an accord." Jack straightened in his chair. He adored that word.

"Oh?" he drawled.

"I need more information on that Tower," Norrington said. "You are doubtless possessed of many secret ways into Tortuga, and no one can match the speed nor stealth of your vessel." Jack preened. "Therefore, I want you to spy out the city and return to me with information specific to military interest. In exchange, I could persuade Governor Swann to provide you with a modified Letter of Marque. Rather than preying on enemy vessels, the Letter would require that every now and then you drop off a chest of foreign baubles, sketches of new animals if you're so inclined, and the like. Do we have an agreement?"

Jack chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"Freedom from the noose and a commission to go wherever I want -- that's a hard offer to refuse, love." Indeed, it was very nearly everything he had ever wanted.

"It's an offer you can't refuse, Captain Sparrow," Norrington said with a devastating smile. "Particularly since you came here to have me destroy the Tower for you." Norrington raised his cup of tea. "To the _Pearl_."

Peas in a pod. At the heart of things, anyway.

"To the _Pearl_ ," Jack replied.

* * *

Shinarashi awoke knowing four things.

One: she was naked.

Two: she was not in the Fort, her home, James-sama's manor, nor any recognizable place.

Three: Lydia was a traitor.

Four: she was most likely about to die a very slow death. The torturers of Makai had means of obtaining information that would make a mortal interrogator quail. Since her captors had apparently given her a substantial dose of energy while removing her clothing, she could not reasonably hope to die soon. Not without making a noose from the satin sheets she lay in. 

The concept was not without appeal. If she had known it would come to this, she would have done more than kissed Benjamin. 

Shinarashi sat up, drawing the sheet around her bosom. It was a gilded cage she lay in. Her bed was a mahogany four-poster. The dresser, nightstand, and armoire were also mahogany. Tapestries adorned the black stone walls and covered the dark stone floor. Sconces burned magical light.

Shinarashi tucked and folded the sheet around her, then crossed to the armoire. The armoire contained beautiful kimonos, but nothing she might use as a weapon. No surprise there. The kitsune woman traded her sheet for the clothes. Were her situation not so bleak, she would have reveled in the beautifully-patterned silk. After years of nothing but fur and cotton, the cranes and knot-work were almost a pleasure.

Almost. If she didn't know what was coming next.

Shinarashi explored her cell. She had a chamber pot and bathing room. The door was locked and there were no discernible windows. Shinarashi picked up the sheets, even though they were most likely spelled against suicide attempts. She hadn't tried so much as a knot when the door opened.

Shinarashi dropped the satin. She backed into a corner, not that even the walls were safe in his citadel.

"Notusson-san," Shinarashi said. James-sama would have been proud of the steadiness in her voice, even if she did clench her fists. It was impossible not to show fear when Notusson's aura filled the room. Even his scent was overwhelming. She wanted to look at his face, but she knew better than to raise her gaze above his shoulders. It wasn't worth the risk of accidentally meeting his hypnotic gray eyes.

"So formal," Zayin Notusson said softly. He closed the door. The lock clicked. Shinarashi wished it was a torturer standing before her, because what Zayin was going to do to her was worse. By virtue of the time she'd spent chasing rats while he learned spells in Makai, he had centuries on her. Her gut clenched and roiled, helplessness sending bile to her throat. Physical strength -- her one superiority -- was useless. Notusson would freeze her muscles before she could so much as scratch him. "I have not revoked my permission," he continued. "You have no need to use my mage name."

"I have revoked mine," Shinarashi replied.

Zayin was silent. His cologne masked his pheromones, made it hard to tell if she was getting a true response or a glamour. She wished she could chance a look at his face.

"Have you renounced politeness as well, then?" he finally asked, offering an arm. "I came to offer you my hospitality. You must be hungry."

"It is hardly polite to kidnap me and keep me prisoner," Shinarashi replied.

"Polite, no," Zayin agreed. He had not retracted his arm. "But necessary. Norrington would hardly have handed you over, would he? His pet demon?" Zayin's smooth voice roughened with bitterness. He stepped closer, reaching out a hand. Shinarashi braced herself for the touch. Zayin's scent changed again, the awful spice of fury overriding everything.

"Don't flinch from me!" he snarled, his control lapsing under the intensity of the feeling. He grabbed Shinarashi's shoulder and pulled her harshly forward. Her nose slammed into his breastbone. Zayin's arms were like iron bands for their yield. "Don't ever flinch from me, Ryoko. Gods--" Zayin halted. Shinarashi felt him rest his jaw against her crown. "Look at me," he whispered in a voice filled with quiet desperation.

Shinarashi shoved him away. Though she told her muscles to use all their force, to slam him into the wall so hard his skull would break. Instead, he only stumbled back a few steps. Zayin didn't think she was an impostor. He wouldn't condemn her to a living death. He'd just take her soul. 

"I'm not your wife anymore," Shinarashi said. "I can't be."

"But you can," Zayin insisted, stepping forward again. He didn't touch her. "That's the beauty of it. I can make it all like it never happened." His voice was its smoothest and richest, a passionate pleading she'd rarely been able to refuse, once upon a time.

"I want it to have happened," Shinarashi whispered. She wouldn't go back to being a monster for anything; no treasure was worth forgetting the denizens of the Fort. They were pack and family now. She would not forsake them, not even the newest crewman, much less fight against them.

But the chances of Zayin accepting her change were slim. If she was brutally honest, they were non-existent. The best she could have hoped for -- that Zayin would sentence her to be one of his drones -- had evaporated the instant he had called her by her birth name. Nothing could keep Zayin from recognizing her. He always knew who she was, despite any spell, disguise, or barrier that stood between them. It was hard to be so cold to one who loved her so much, and who she had loved just as deeply. Even though he was a monster.

"Do you really?" Zayin asked. "Do you really want to be a slave to the simpering mortal fools? Barbarians with no impulse toward the different but to slaughter, conquer, or worship? A slave all the more pathetic because you stay even without the hold of chains? They only tolerate you because you are _tamed_." Zayin spat the word like an unripe grape. "If you did not hold to their petty rules and do their bidding, how long do you think it would be before they turned on you? Not long, my love. So short a time we don't have words to measure it."

"I'm not your love!" Shinarashi insisted throatily. "Norrington-sama's men are not like that."

"The village knew your family. You'd never given them any cause to harm you, and look what they did! Humans a small-minded child-race, Ryoko. That's why they rioted in New Norfolk and New Westminster. That's why they've locked up the priests in Dagmar and Montego Bay; why Governor Swann threatened to do the same; why Gloucester has told the citizens of Kingston that the enemy you're fighting is a pirate syndicate, and why your half-bred demon master keeps his Makai nature a secret! They're all bad from the youth up. There's no saving them, Ryoko. The only thing left is a cull."

"Pull out the weeds so the flowers can grow," Shinarashi growled. "But a rose in a wheat field is a weed, for all its beauty. There's good in them. They just need to grow up a bit. We should be helping--"

"We tried to help them!" Zayin bellowed. "So did you! Have you forgotten the Burning Times that drove the Council of Magic to close off Makai forever?" Zayin's shoulders drooped. When he spoke next, his voice was as rough as hers. "Have you forgotten how they hurt you? All my power I bent to the truth you showed me. You are my mate. I love you. Can you honestly say it is your will to turn your back on me and all I have built with you, for you?"

The tears were falling now, streaming down her cheeks. Shinarashi nodded.

"We were wrong, Numair," she rasped. "All of it. We were _wrong_."

Zayin fell silent. Shinarashi held her breath, a wild hope blooming in her chest. Perhaps she could reach him. Perhaps he would accept her choice, undo what damage he'd done--

"They did a fantastic job," Zayin said in a deadly purr. The mage-globes flickered.

The blast of Zayin's magic hit her like a landslide. Shinarashi braced herself against it, building walls around the lessons the men of Fort Charles had taught her. For a while, they held. Their wills were equal.

But their power was not. Soon -- too soon, godsdamn it! -- Shinarashi began to tire. 

The walls fell, Zayin's power rushed over her, and the last thing Shinarashi was aware of was the sound of her own scream.

* * *

Shinarashi.... awoke. Not merely in the sense of abandoning sleep, but rather in the sense of taking up one's life. The languorous roll followed by an equally sensuous stretch was more akin to a cat's rousing than the morning stirrings of a human. And for good reason. It was no human that luxuriated in awakening, not even a woman with a demon's body and a human soul. Shinarashi, the real Shinarashi, the Storm of Death in all her power climbed out of the whorled bed to greet her freedom. She cracked her knuckles, glorying in having proper claws instead of blunted nails, in letting her ears be pointed instead of rounding them to appear more human, in not using her hair to mask her fox ears, in having both tails instead of the one she could never fully hide. She moved with animal grace to the armoire and donned one of the kimonos within. She chose the black one with a striking gold obi. Black for joy and union, gold for wealth -- it was appropriate.

Shinarashi walked to the oak door. It did not open, doubtless a precaution in case Numair's repairs had unforeseen consequences. Which they did. But the consequence was not a dangerous one, nothing Numair couldn't cure. Shinarashi purred as she washed her hands and face. The first flush of estrous ran through her veins, which would make her reunion with her husband all that more enjoyable. A few drones would take the edge off the energy craving, leaving the rest of her attention free for the business at hand.

Both businesses, really. She had two centuries' of work to catch up on. She would start, of course, with those who had taken advantage of her weakened resistance. Then she would take her pound of flesh from the Shinto priests. And then... well, there was an entire world to play in, was there not?

The door opened. Shinarashi knew who it was without turning to look. She'd intended to be graceful about her greeting, but her joy did not heed the bounds of her control. Shinarashi didn't know if she ran into Numair's embrace or if he swept her into it. All she knew was the sweet and long-absent taste of his mouth. She knew the desperation that crushed her against his chest, the passion in their kiss that had little and everything to do with lust. Shinarashi kneaded his chest, her claws piercing his robes but not his skin. Their lips parted only when Numair's lungs began to burn. Shinarashi opened her eyes to drink in the sight of her mate: his sharp features, his wizard's streak, the unearthly beauty of his eyes. His magic had stopped his aging in his early forties, he looked no different from when she’d seen him last. To think that just a few hours ago she'd feared him!

Shinarashi tenderly caressed Numair's face and shoulders. She hadn't thought she'd ever see him again.

"Ryoko," Numair breathed. He pulled her head close, pressing his cheek against her hair. His breath tickled her ears.

After a moment both long and short, Numair stepped back.

"Come, I've all but forgotten myself," he said. His eyes were wet. "You must be hungry."

Shinarashi grinned, a feral expression that was more fox than woman.

"Food can wait," she purred. She picked up her husband and tossed him expertly into the center of the bed. She was atop him before he'd bounced twice, both taking his mouth and being taken.

* * *

The town of Dagmar was struck at night. First by a wave the likes of which not even the oldest could remember, then by soldiers who did not die no matter what was shot at them or what part of their body was removed. Like clay, they simply re-formed and came again.

But worse than the clay men was the woman who led them. Her eyes were gold, her hair silver, her claws red with the blood of the slain, and her sword black for all the blood that had stained it. She was a demon, there was no doubt of that. Only one who faced her lived to tell about it -- a terrified Midshipman who was told to give a message to the Fox Commodore.

"Tell him," the monster snarled, "that the Storm of Death has returned."

And then she was gone, she and her army with her. All that remained was the soggy rubble of what had once been a refuge.

* * *

Shinarashi made one other stop that night.

"You betrayed me," she growled with a savage happiness and equally savage anger. The blood that spattered and stained her was thrilling. It made her feel alive, invincible.

The spoiled girl beating a mugger with a skill not her own froze. She dropped the thug, who took the opportunity to flee.

"And though your betrayal led me to my husband," Shinarashi purred as the ashen-faced girl turned to face her, "you did not know that. You thought you were sending me to die, all for a trinket that means nothing."

Lydia never knew what hit her. Nine strikes, one to each vital area, all delivered with a speed that made them seem simultaneous -- the Nine-headed Dragon Flash of the Hiten style. Lydia's corpse struck the ground before Shinarashi landed. 

Shinarashi sheathed her bokuto with a smile. The Hiten style was dependent upon the condition of the swordsman's soul. The more advanced techniques had been beyond her reach for some time, destroyed by guilt and regret. Now, however, her spirit was clear. It gave her... joy. Joy like she had not known for centuries.

But not as much joy as killing Norrington would yet bring her.

Shinarashi gave a mocking bow to the Fort, then activated the necklace that would return her to Numair's citadel. She would have her revenge, but all in good time. After all, what use was killing Norrington now, when she could kill him later and thus lay claim to the world?


	13. Scrying Sorrow

Zayin Notusson was happy. Not merely happy, no, that was the wrong word. He was _joyful_. _Complete_. Whole in a way that no one or nothing could ever make him.

He had his wife back. And not only did he have her, but she would be estrous soon. Zayin stroked his mate's soft mane. The first time Shinarashi's Time had come upon her, he hadn't known what was happening. He'd feared her incessant energy cravings would drain him to death, and so he'd captured some strong young lackeys to serve as food for her and taken himself far away. Now, however, after life in Makai and the research opportunities that afforded, he knew differently. His fear as a young man had been foolishness. It had robbed him of the opportunity of both offspring and to provide his wife what had been robbed from her.

A family. A clan.

Zayin pulled Ryoko closer. He curled around her protectively, even though in a purely physical sense she was more hardy than he. This time, he would not draw back. 

It was the least his lady wife deserved.

"Always brooding," Ryoko purred, awakening without so much as stirring a muscle. "How are we to enjoy what we make if you do not relax?"

"The kitsune's nature is buoyant," Zayin purred in his deepest tones. "A human's is steady. I keep your feet on the ground."

"On the ground, this I see," Ryoko said mischievously, turning in her husband's embrace. "But not in the mud. There are things to life that are pleasures."

"You're my pleasure," Zayin murmured. "And I have a gift for you. Something I've been working on to while away the time in Makai." Zayin slid from between the soft sheets and padded over to a chest. Ryoko sat up, her ears straight forward and alert. Her nose twitched as she tried to sniff out some advance clue as to the nature of her present. Zayin coyly commended her to close her eyes, which his wife reluctantly obeyed. He saw her peek. A growled half-threat not to give her her present at all compelled true obedience.

When the heavy weight of the burlap wrapping landed on her lap, Ryoko emitted a girlish squeal of delight. Her eyes flew open like a child's. The twine was hastily sliced with claws, the cloth torn away to reveal--

"Oh, gods, Numair," she breathed. The air of the girl was gone. Only the woman remained. She lifted the exquisite katana. Her eyes wide and round, Ryoko pulled the metal blade from its sheath.

"It's spelled," Zayin said proudly, perching on the side of the bed. "The equations took forever to hammer out, but this metal blade will shift with you as smoothly as an organic object does. Long may it draw the blood of your enemies."

For a moment, it was clear Ryoko did not know what to say.

Then she let out another undignified cry and embraced her mate.

* * *

The five battered survivors from Dagmar arrived on a fishing boat. The picture the conscious ones painted was grim – a massive wave that shattered the Butterfly like a child’s toy against the town’s buildings, then pushed rubble and broken men as far as a mile inland. The tidal wave had pulled immediately backward. Those who hadn’t died or been drug out to sea were massacred by clay men led by--

“It was your doctor, Commodore, make no mistake. I saw her with my own eyes. She said-- she said to tell you,” the lone surviving midshipman of the Butterfly said, choking back despair by only the strongest force of will, “that ‘the Storm of Death has returned.’”

Larsen was dead. An entire ship, and entire port, wiped out. Shinarashi had explained to him the ways her principles had curtailed her power, how much her people had been feared. Norrington had never really understood how much or why until this moment.

“Well that’s that then,” Schwansee said, “the creature has shown her true colors at last.”

Groves and Gillette sounded him down in a cacophony of protest. Murtogg was mute, staring straight ahead.

“If it was our lives for the Commodore’s in some way, or if he had changed cloaks, the demon woman would kill us – well, perhaps not the Captain -- in an instant. I do not pretend otherwise. But nothing in the pattern of her behavior leads me to believe Doctor Hito would betray Commodore Norrington willingly,” Pellew said once the others had died down, to Norrington’s considerable surprise. “We know the other side can make people do things they don’t want to do. We’ve seen as much with the hippocampi. From what I understand, Doctor Hito has been vulnerable to such ensorcelling in the past, even if it controlled only her ability to shape-shift.”

“She might have convinced them to accept her, be spying them out somehow,” Groves suggested.

“She can’t lie,” Gillette argued. “Makes it hard to spy. Pellew’s right, it’s more of their mind-control.”

“Was she wearing any sort of collar that you could see?” Norrington asked the midshipman. “It would look like a broad band of cloth, runes on it perhaps?”

The midshipman shook his head. “Not that I could see. But her clothes-- they were different. Real different, sir. I-- can’t say there wasn’t, neither. And she had two tails. Not sure if that’s important, but it was-- real different.”

Norrington nodded first to the midshipman, then to Murtogg. Murtogg was pale, but he collected the midshipman and left the briefing. 

“Brainwashed or turncoat, it doesn’t matter. Not functionally, anyway,” Norrington stated. “Either way the opposition has what is effectively a weapon capable of massive destruction. We need to find a way to rob them of it, either by circumventing the brainwashing or, if it turns out that Doctor Hito has joined their cause willingly for some reason, by--” His voice caught. Norrington cleared his throat. “I am sending a reconnaissance mission to what may be a base of operations for our opponent, if not the center of operations. While the main objective will be to spy out defenses and layout so that we can plan some sort of frontal assault, there is no reason they cannot investigate the nature of Doctor Hito’s-- recruitment – as a secondary objective. Gillette will be leading the offensive. Schwansee, you will captain in his stead. Mr. Gillette, remain for additional orders. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Groves was the last lieutenant to leave the room, sharing a long look with Gillette before he left.

“James--” Gillette began.

“As I said, Captain, it doesn’t matter,” Norrington stated curtly. “Whether Shinarashi was kidnapped and brainwashed, or left of her own volition, our ultimate objective remains the same. Sparrow reports that on his last voyage to Tortuga the town had been taken over by some sort of magical force based in a tower at the center of town. The inhabitants were put to sleep with cursed jewels over their hearts. Monsters patrolled the city. Sparrow escaped, but all manner of-- something worse than Makai hunted his vessel from Tortuga until his apprehension. He believes the monsters were tasked with keeping him from reporting to the Navy what he’d seen in Tortuga. I believe him. 

“Sparrow’s cooperation has been secured. He has been providing Elizabeth with intelligence on the layout of the town and its harbor. However, he did not get a good look at the central tower’s defenses and certainly not with a military eye. I have repaired his vessel, not to press it into Naval service, but as part of an accord. Sparrow and his crew will convey you into Tortuga secretly. The two of you will gather as much information as you can on the tower and its denizens. If you can, gather information on how Shinarashi’s cooperation was ensured. Afterwards, Sparrow will return you here so that we may plan our assault.”

"Commodore," Gillette argued, his tone barely on the low end of respect. "I do not see why I must be the one for this...undertaking." He might have well said "mess;" for his tone was expressive where his words were tactful.

"Because I need someone I can trust," Norrington began. Gillette's mouth popped open to recommend Theodore as a replacement-- "Who is not fooled by Sparrow's charm," Norrington finished. Gillette closed his mouth. "I'm not asking you to adopt him, merely to accompany him and a squad of marines to Tortuga. You will observe and then present a report that isn't rum-soaked and riddled with lies. You are not under his command. Technically he is under yours, though I doubt he will obey." Norrington fixed his Captain with a hard look. "You must not kill him. Those are my orders."

"Yes, sir," Gillette growled. He saluted crisply and turned to leave the office.

“Andrew,” Norrington said. Gillette paused, his hand on the doorknob. “From what Mr. Turner told me, Sparrow forwent using a pistol for ten years just to be able to kill Barbossa with that one shot. He is capable of a tremendous grudge. Whoever is in that tower ordered Mr. Turner’s death. Use the leverage as you must, should Sparrow’s compliance waver.”

Gillette looked down, his lips pressed together until they were white. He nodded once.

When Gillette closed the door behind him, Norrington sat at his desk. He rested his elbows on the surface and leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

It had to be the control collars. It just had to be.

* * *

The _Pearl’s_ sails had been replaced with crisp white canvas. Sparrow had directed the Fort Charles repair crews to sand down and stain the old woodwork with a light stain, and for the new wood to be treated the same. He’d had the bowsprit removed and shortened, and the figurehead replaced with a woman in a top-hat. Sparrow had also had all the hull simplified, all of Barbossa’s gothic elements removed and replaced with a crisp modern look. 

Norrington had taken his meaning immediately. He’d had the Fort tailors strip one of Gillette’s coats of all ornamentation and widen the cuffs, and had the same done the same to the uniforms of the men who would be accompanying Gillette. He’d also had Sparrow’s crew given old seamen’s clothes to wear.

The _Black Pearl_ didn’t leave the Port Royal harbor. A Dutch maritime vessel who had gone rogue when times got lean did. The disguise worked, because they didn’t see so much as a single Gore Crow when they left the relative safety of Port Royal’s waters.

It had been a good idea to dress Gillette and his merry men as ex-military, because there wasn’t a single thing pirate-y about the posture of the man standing on the quarterdeck of the _Black Pearl_. Military posture and the _Pearl_ wasn’t a good combination. The promise of freedom from the noose had secured the cooperation of the crew for now, but it was even odds whether that would hold once they got to Tortuga. If they played their cards wrong, they could find themselves trapped alone at port with ship and crew long gone.

“Now, son,” Jack said as he adjusted their heading. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past and that you’ve got a dim view of pirates. But there are a lot more of them then there are of you lot, so how about you just-- stay quiet, and don’t say anything... stupid.”

Gillette glanced at him, then looked back out at the crew. “Neither half of that sentence was an ‘us.’ Part and parcel of your trade, I imagine.”

“See, that’s the kind of stupid thing I was telling you _not_ to say. I’ll remind you that if my crew chucks you overboard any hope you have of rescuing your bonny lass from her bewitchment disappears.”

That actually got Gillette to turn on his heel to face Sparrow.

“Doctor Hito is not my ‘bonny lass.’ Though we’ve already established the concept of _camaraderie_ is not in your _répertoire_.”

Jack set his jaw slightly off kilter and sighed, then squared his jaw. Heroic types were exhausting.

“There were two of us and eight of you.” Jack didn’t even pretend to sound anything but tired. “You’re the one who decided to strike your colors and leave without a fight, not me.”

Gillette laughed, mocking and sharp. “Do you think stealing the _Dauntless_ is the measure of your character? That is the least of what you’ve done.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the first?” Jack gripped the wheel in a deliberately loose grip and didn’t look at the man. “Sacking Nassau? Impersonating a priest?”

“You stole the cargo of the _Wicked Wench_.” 

“People aren’t cargo, mate.”

“No, they’re not,” Gillette agreed. “And yet you sold them anyway.”

It was Jack’s turn to be startled. He turned to look over at Gillette. “What?”

“The slaves from the _Wicked Wench_ were never recovered. You were branded for their ‘theft.’ The _Wench_ itself was burned. And yet somehow you were able to finance this,” Gillette drew a short, disdainful breath, “vessel.”

It was a mark of how surprised Sparrow was that he didn’t even bridle at the aspersion cast upon the _Pearl_.

“Listen,” Sparrow started hotly, then stopped. He made a wide circular gesture with his free hand and tried again. “I didn’t ‘finance’ the _Black Pearl_ with money, all right?” The clock was ticking again on that bargain, but that was a problem for future-Jack. “You set slaves loose that you didn’t buy, they call it theft. Ask Anamaria. She knows one of the chaps I let loose. Do you think she’d sail with me if I went ‘round selling people?”

The look on Gillette’s face had shifted from supercilious to wary. He looked over to the bow, where Anamaria was breaking up a heated argument between two of the hands. 

“It’s possible,” Gillette stated. He glanced again at Sparrow. His shoulders relaxed fractionally. “But I will admit less probable.” The first hand shoved Anamaria aside and walked away. The second had was clearly apologetic. Anamaria noticed them watching. Gillette inclined his head. 

“People do what’s right by them. Can’t expect any more of them than that,” Sparrow said as Anamaria moved along the deck with no more response to Gillette’s greeting than a guarded look.

Gillette snorted. “In your profession, perhaps.”

“So what was Harfeyen, then? A will o’ the wisp?”

“An aberration,” Gillette said stiffly. “You can’t hardly claim that Commodore Norrington does only what’s best for him.”

Jack laughed. “Your Commodore does what he wants, when he wants, because he wants it. The fact he wants to be a hero doesn’t change that. Don’t get me wrong, son: I admire a man who’s willing to do whatever’s necessary. He’d make a Hell of a pirate and he’s got a spot on my crew if ever he wants it. Even without the magic sea powers. Especially with the magic sea powers.”

“You have no idea what sort of man the Commodore is.”

“I’ve a better idea than you.” Jack smiled again, as knowing as possible. “Back when your Commodore was a young Lieutenant, there was a molly who joined the Navy – better food, better pay than being a poor lad in a tenement hall. You know the type. Rather than face years away from his laddie love, his partner joined up, too. It was only a matter of time before they were caught. They were. By a midshipman, who reported it to the officer of the watch so the good Lieutenant could keep an eye on them until the Captain awoke. 

“Instead, your upstanding future Commodore told the partner that on the watch change, he and his lover would be reported. Then he said it was such a shame that the Lieutenant would have to report that the seamen had assaulted a superior officer and deserted together.” 

Gillette looked like he’d seen a ghost, or felt one walking across his grave. 

“You lie! The Commodore has hung men for it on many an occasion.” Gillette’s voice carried the vociferous stridence that could only come from panic. 

“Oh, I’m sure he has. Men who shoved boys over cannons and rum casks because it’d been too long since they’d seen a whore. But somehow the boys didn’t end up in the noose, did they?” Gillette had no response. It was as good as an affirmative, not that Jack needed one. “I’ve put men on the plank for the same.”

“You are nothing--”

“Someday Norrington is going to be given an order he can’t follow,” Jack cut the insufferable Captain off. “And he won’t. Then they’ll slap a brand on his arm or a death sentence on his head, and he’ll end up on my side of the fence whether he likes it or not. I _know_.”

Gillette looked away. Then he turned away rather than meet Jack’s gaze. Gillette knew, too. Sparrow would have bet the _Pearl_ on it.

The silence wore on just long enough for Sparrow to begin to wonder if maybe the Captain had opted for willful blindness instead. 

Then: 

“I have misjudged you, Sparrow.”

“Happens all the time.” Sparrow shrugged. You got used to it, really. Well, maybe not completely. Remembering Will’s declaration at what should have been Sparrow’s hanging still made him smile, even years later. 

Dear William. The prick of anger in his chest was as sharp as the sadness.

Gillette laughed again, that same high, brittle, sarcastic chuckle. “I suppose so.”

Jack let the Captain stand in silence for a bit before he said as lightly as he could, “You know, pirates don’t wear cover. Upkeep’s too hard. Too expensive. You’re a dead giveaway, looking like that.”

At first, Gillette didn’t move. Then, slowly, he reached up. Gillette pulled lightly on the combs and removed the pins. Whatever Sparrow had expected when the white wig was pulled away, hair dark red as burnished copper wasn’t it. 

“Go on. Whatever commentary you’re about to make: potatoes, temper, whiskey. I’ve heard them all. Impress me,” Gillette challenged.

“I bet-- what’s his name? Schafer? Shakespeare? Schwansee!” Jack stamped his foot as he remembered. “That’s the name. I bet Schwansee loves taking orders from you.”

When Gillette turned back around, the left side of his mouth was lifted. It was the first true smile Sparrow suspected he’d ever seen from the man. He was turning his wig in his hands as he smoothed the strands.

“By the time Lieutenant Schwansee put it together and complained to Admiral Gloucester, I’d solved the dragon problem Captain Welks had been beating his head against for weeks -- in an afternoon. The Admiral told Schwansee that any man entitled to style himself ‘Dragonslayer’ if he wanted could captain any ship he liked.”

“Dragonslayer, eh?” Sparrow tilted his head and gave Gillette his most charming smile. “I knew you’d warm up to me.”

* * *

Sparrow had the _Pearl_ drop anchor off the shore of the Misty Mire. Leaving the ship that far from the Port would made for a long row both to and from the port in the longboat. It was worth it to keep the _Pearl_ completely out of sight of the port and its "beasties". Gillette didn’t fancy this trip back to Port Royal ending up like Sparrow’s last any more than Sparrow did. The Mire would also make it easier to lose their pursuers on foot should they have to.

Jack led Gillette through basements, crawlspaces, and back alleys toward their goal. Gillette noted that there were open berths at the docks now. There were even dockmen manning them. People Sparrow gave no indication of knowing napped on porticoes and ambled the shops. Gillette had no illusions any of them were actually human. If Sparrow had come to Tortuga now, he would have assumed the town was sleeping through the afternoon heat and sailed right in. It was sheer dumb luck he’d arrived before the trap could be reset.

Not, of course, that he would ever admit it was luck. “I’m Captain Jack Sparrow,” and so forth. 

As the pirate and his Navy charge got closer to the Tower, the illusion of occupancy ran thinner. For the last seven blocks there was no illusion at all, only cursed sleepers and patrolling shadows. They surveyed their target in sections. Gillette indicated which vantage point he needed and Jack got him there, quiet as a churchmouse. 

The Tower was a citadel. It stood in a large octagonal courtyard surrounded by both an inner and an outer wall. The battlements were roofed against the tropical rains. The rooflines had a graceful, sweeping look. Jack whispered that he’d seen their like in China, with subtle differences in architecture. There were eight gates on both sets of walls. The space between the walls was smooth, hard-packed dirt. Gillette didn’t like the look of the spouts on the outer edge of the inner wall, even without the spell-fear churning his guts.

Gillette had to keep looking away from the citadel to compose himself before looking again. Assaulting a citadel you couldn’t look at for more than a few minutes without wanting to break and run was going to be a problem. 

The troops manning the citadel came in three basic divisions, that Gillette could see: humans, almost-humans, and not human at all. The humans’ style of dress varied as much as their racial descent, but all their garments were of quality make. They all had some sort of belt or bandolier on their outfits as well. Some of them had pouches attached, some carried satchels. Gillette was willing to bet they were all mages. The almost-humans were the creatures that had pursued Sparrow. They had upright bodies like men, but the faces of monkeys. They marched in even, disciplined lines. Each one carried the same curved halberd. The monkey-men’s uniforms had the same almost-Chinese look as the rooflines, Sparrow informed him.

The non-humans were the most worrisome of all. Gore Crows weren’t the only constructs in the Tower’s arsenal. There were the patrolling shadows, piles of mud that moved on their own, glowing orbs in all different colors, walking skeletons with too many arms and forearms made of sword-blades, dogs with red-glowing eyes, masked things with cloaks made of woven rushes. 

“What are they?” Sparrow whispered when Gillette looked down to let the spell-fear fade. Gillette’s hands were shaking. His collar, armpits, and spine all felt damp with sweat. Sparrow’s shirt was dark with moisture as well.

“Constructs of some form,” Gillette whispered. “Shinarashi would be able to identify the schools of magic involved. The Gore Crows are necromancy, that much I know. The skeletons probably are as well. The black orbs, too, I think.” Gillette licked lips. His heart was pounding. 

“At least one of them is an illusionist. There’s some sort of large invisible structure in the courtyard,” Sparrow whispered.

“Can you see it?” Gillette asked. Having another magic seer available--

Sparrow shook his head. “The Tower’s off-center in the walls. Yet none of those moving in the courtyard have ever cut through the main yard. They either move along the outer edge of the wall, or through the middle of the yard by the Tower.” 

Gillette nodded. His hands had finally stopped shaking. “The mages must have some sort of charm to protect them from the fear.” The creatures were probably immune. It would explain why there were no other soldiers. There wouldn’t be enough charms to pick off corpses to outfit a company, even if they could manage to down all the mages. 

He still hadn’t seen Shinarashi. Gillette looked back out the window. The Tower windows were dark glass. He couldn’t see through them. Those inside could probably see out just fine. He had no idea where she was, or why she was there, or how to find out. 

Gillette looked beyond the citadel walls. Was there a well, perhaps? Something like a recreational area? Surely she had to leave the citadel sometime for something other than massacres.

He almost missed it, the neat row of foxgloves along the side-wall of one of the buildings. There was a substantial pile of cobblestones next to it, and an equally substantial hole in the paved courtyard around the flowers. There were long shallow mounds rounds of dirt interspersed with runnels in the vacated area. The courtyard’s fountain had been ripped open on one side to supply water.

Foxgloves were native to the Canaries. Shinarashi had cultivated them in Jamaica to make a medicine for the heart.

“I need to get into that building,” Gillette whispered to Sparrow. 

The building was some sort of dining establishment. Dust covered the floor and the seating. There were no tracks on the wood floor. No one entered here. There was a chalkboard with tidy writing behind the counter. Gillette didn’t read or speak Spanish, but the language was close enough to French for him to understand the chalkboard was the cafe-keeper’s inventory log. The date was November 7, 1722.

Gillette picked a window nearest the courtyard and crouched beneath and to the side of it. Sparrow crouched farther to the side still.

“I will remind you, that those shadows don’t leave footprints. Every second we are here is a second one of them can float in here and find us,” Sparrow whispered.

“I am not leaving without some idea of what has transpired with Doctor Hito,” Gillette whispered back. 

“Suit yourself, Dragonslayer,” Sparrow whispered. “Hope you know how to piss in a bottle.”

Gillette hoped the look on his face conveyed the full measure of his disdain. “ _Captain Gillette_. And I believe the concept to be fairly self-explanatory.”

“That’s ‘cause you’ve never done it,” Sparrow whispered. Gillette looked up at the ceiling and wished for patience, then hunkered down more comfortably against the wall.

They waited. The shadows and constructs passed outside, but did not enter the abandoned cafe. Sparrow leaned his back against the wall and dozed. The boredom stretched on. Thirst clawed at his mouth and throat. Just when Gillette was about to have no choice but to give up so they could make it back to the _Pearl_ before dark, Gillette heard it – voices. He struck the pirate on the arm lightly. Sparrow jerked awake.

“--Norrington’s pet pirate made it into the city once,” a woman whose voice he didn’t recognize was saying as she approached the courtyard. Sparrow wore a look of utter outrage, but he held his silence. “I will not even contemplate what the Archmagus would do to me if you were taken.”

“I believe I can handle one drunk pirate, Oyun,” Shinarashi said. She didn’t sound like a prisoner. She sounded like she was talking to a friend. Gillette laid a hand on the wall.

“It was not I who taught the primitives medicine,” Oyun replied loftily. “I cannot discount that they have brewed some sedative to subdue you.” Gillette could hear the creaking of a chair and the flipping pages of a book. “I don’t know what you possibly could have been thinking.”

“The same reason I did everything: to gain their trust. Norrington and his insipid little magic seer wouldn’t have told their secrets to the ex-totem living in the woods nor to the dangerous soldier. But their dear healer, who only wanted to save lives to redeem herself from her life of destruction,” Gillette had never heard such mockery in Shinarashi’s voice before, “her they trusted just fine.” His heart was pounding again. This time it had nothing to do with the spell-fear. Sparrow was looking at him with pity. 

“I suppose.” Oyun’s voice was still dissatisfied. “I still don’t see why you come out here in the first place.”

“There is too much necromancy in the citadel,” Shinarashi replied. “Plants won’t grow.”

“I mean the gardening. You never used to be one for mucking about in the dirt like a common farmer.”

“It’s soothing.”

There was no way to leave the cafe now without being seen. They were trapped there until the women left. Gillette pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. 

It wasn’t possible. Shinarashi couldn’t lie. It wasn’t just her word she couldn’t. He’d seen James unable to say the phrase “Harfeyen’s death was an accident” aloud. There was no possible way she had betrayed them, there simply wasn’t. But if she could not lie, then she could not be lying to Oyun. And if she could lie, then everything from the last two years could be a lie as well.

How was he ever going to explain this to James?

All they heard for a while was the clink of garden implements and the turning of pages. Then Shinarashi began softly to sing. 

“Tá dhá chluais mhaol ar an dúlamán gaelach, Rachaimid go Doire leis an dúlamán gaelach.” The song’s melody was as catchy and upbeat as it had ever been. It would have hurt less if she’d sewn his belly shut with langridge shot inside. Gillette closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing himself to stay silent as verses and chorus followed each other.

“Why are you crying?” Oyun asked suddenly. Shinarashi stopped singing. They heard Oyun set her book down. Gillette opened his eyes. He risked turning around to peer through the window, barely raising his eyes above the window sill. He was ready to duck down again if either woman was facing him. Sparrow made frantic “down” gestures that Gillette ignored.

Shinarashi was in profile. Her face was as calm as her voice had been smooth. She had raised her fingers to her cheeks and withdrawn them. Even through the dirty glass, Gillette could tell by the way she stared at them that her fingers were wet.

“It is a sad song.” Shinarashi was still staring mystified at her fingers. 

“It is not.” Oyun was from some sort of Eastern people. Gillette couldn’t identify the exact nationality. Her brightly-colored garments looked nothing like anything he had seen Shinarashi create. He could see what the Butterfly’s midshipman had meant about Shinarashi’s appearance, though. She’d never before put so little effort into looking human – or so much into looking like a demon. “Where did you learn it?”

Shinarashi shook her head with a confused expression. “I don’t remember. Isn’t that strange?”

Gillette had only once before in his life been so relieved. She hadn’t been lying to Oyun because she couldn’t remember that what she was saying was a lie.

“It’s the trauma,” Oyun said gently, reaching out to take Shinarashi’s wrists in her hands. “Captivity affects the memory.”

Shinarashi looked up. The confusion was giving way to suspicion. “Not like this.” 

“Pecrasne glibne glan!” Gillette ducked below the window sill as the spell went off. Gillette heard Shinarashi collapse on the ground. 

“The Archmagus should have let me put a collar on you and been done with it. This attempt to recapture the glory days is going to cost us everything.” Oyun spoke another spell. Gillette heard the cobblestones clatter and the scrape of stone through dirt. “No more gardening.” There was a loud pop, then silence. When Gillette poked his head up, the women were gone. The courtyard was completely intact and the foxgloves were nowhere to be seen.

The Archmagus didn’t want Shinarashi to be a weapon of massive destruction in a collar. He wanted her to believe she’d been a captive spying out the enemy during her incarceration. He’d played with her memory to do so, even though it was the riskier option. Making her hate Norrington was just good tactics. So was erasing her memory of her friends at the Fort. But Mr. Murtogg wasn’t a figurehead or even tactically significant beyond his abilities. Yet, the Archmagus hadn’t erased Mr. Murtogg with the rest of them. He’d specifically taken the time to make Shinarashi disdainful. 

He was a necromancer. A necromancer with no interest in ruling the territories he’d seized. He just killed. 

Shinarashi had told them she’d known the Stormwind woman. They knew Stormwind had wanted someone aboard ship. Port Royal had been the focus of the mages and their pirates from the start. 

Shinarashi should have realized. So should he. Gillette looked down at Sparrow.

“I know who the Archmagus is. We need to get back to Port Royal.”

* * *

Upon his return to the _Black Pearl_ , Gillette found several dippers of water, a chamber pot, and ink and paper – in that order. He began sketching out his observations before his memory could fade or blur. He worked first by the fading light, then by candle, until he was making too many mistakes to continue. He laid on his back on the floor.

His body woke him four hours later by habit. Dawn was breaking. He had his light back and so he waded back in. 

Gillette looked up when the door to his makeshift wardroom opened. It was full light. His visitor was Anamaria. She was carrying two mugs with a hunk of hard-bread balanced on top. His stomach cramped when he saw it. He was getting as bad as James.

“Thank you,” he said feelingly. He took the bread and one of the mugs. It contained strong black tea, not the acidic bean juice James drank after battle nor Shinarashi’s miserable green.

“How bad is it?” Anamaria asked, dragging over a crate to use as a chair. 

Gillette swallowed his first bite of bread before speaking, mindful of Sparrow’s caution regarding his crew’s loyalty. In his loftiest tones he replied, “I’m not certain why you care, Miss. Your part is done.”

“Uh-huh. And how stupid do you think I am?” Anamaria asked sharply. 

“Numeric value or qualitative descript--” His head snapped to the side and pain bloomed hot and sharp along his right cheek. 

“This isn’t a Navy ship,” Anamaria said. She was standing now, one hand resting her weight on the top of her mug. “You want to run your mouth, you get hit.”

“Oh, I assure you, I’ve been struck for ‘running my mouth’ plenty in the Navy as well. Less so, now days. Privilege of rank.” Gillette raised the back of his hand to his lip and then drew it away. There was no blood. A warning shot, then. 

“Stop being an ass. I’m trying to be nice.”

“And why are you being nice, hm? I was given to believe you weren’t all that fond of the Navy, as a rule.”

“I’m not,” Anamaria said, picking up and putting her mug down sharply for emphasis. “You’ve got us all of us over the barrel with a full pardon on the table. You’re going to double-cross us and make us fight because you need the cannon fodder. I get it. But we deserve to know what we’re going up against so we can maybe survive it.”

Gillette opened his mouth.

“And even in some magical fairy-land where you don’t stab us in the back, Will’s dead. Jack’s going to want to do something about it. Either way, I want to live. I want to sail into London a free woman, buy a fancy dress from a fancy shop, and walk down the Thames with a parasol like a lady. All right? I can’t do that if I’m dead because I was sent in blind. I was born on Tortuga, let me help.”

Gillette weighed the chances she was lying. He didn’t think she was. As far lies went, being willing to die for the chance to be a lady for an afternoon was ludicrous. But as the truth went, Gillette believed it. He had forwent his accent, every sort of vice, and any sort of paramour for the sake of a sterling reputation that would let him climb as high as he could go. Gloucester had called him “Mick” as a midshipman but “Captain” now, and Schwansee had to call him “sir” no matter how he hated it. Nothing in his life tasted as sweet as those moments. If Sparrow and Norrington were two versions of the same story as Sparrow believed, perhaps in some way, he and Anamaria were as well. 

“There is something to be said for legitimacy, is there not?” Gillette said softly. Anamaria nodded.

Gillette pulled the bottom map up to the top of the stack.

“It’s bad. The glimpse you saw was just the central spire. Below it is a fortress. Even getting to the citadel itself will be challenging. The port streets are narrow and winding. The Archmagus has at least seven mages to rain fire and lightning and God knows what else on our heads. He also has a battery of constructs. Most of the necromantic creations and probably the monkey-men would be vulnerable to fire, but we have no way to evacuate the city beforehand. We will have to fight our way through the streets. Even if we bring every army detachment in the area and all our fighting force, it will be a bloodbath...and then we’ll have the citadel itself. Double walls with _meurtrières_. And on top of it all, the Archmagus has ensorcelled the non-human member of our crew. I have watched her cut through men like a scythe cutting grain. This time we’ll be on the receiving end. In the meantime, he can swing ‘round the mouth of the bay with his captured pirate fleet and force us to fight both on land and at sea.”

“Maybe not,” Anamaria said. She tapped the drawing of the walls with one finger. “Eight is lucky in the East, for the most part. That’s why he didn’t use the Fort du Rocher.” Anamaria slid her finger up and inch and tapped the paper. “It’s all but built into the cliffside. The Brethren of the Coast used it as their headquarters, back when they ran the town. They knew that either the French or the Spanish would come to reclaim the island, so they built a back way out in case of a siege they couldn’t win.” Anamaria traced the paper again and tapped. “My father helped build it when he was a young man. I can escort a small detachment inside. We can use the fort’s cannons, if they still work, or bomb them from the walls if they don’t. We still have some from Barbossa’s time. The Archmagus will _have_ to turn and face us or risk a breach of his inland walls.”

The vantage point would also give Mr. Murtogg a clear line of sight to whatever the invisible structure was, not that Anamaria had any way to know that.

“As for the town,” Anamaria slid her finger forward. “The jewels weren’t just sitting on their chests. They were imbedded in their flesh. The stones pulsed with light. Everyone we saw looked older than they were. All the elderly and the animals were gone. The townsfolk aren’t cursed. Their years are being used as fuel. When they’ve nothing left to give, their souls and bones are used for these.” Anamaria pulled the page detailing what Gillette believed to be the necromantic constructs forward. “I’m sure of it.” She looked up at Gillette. Her eyes were hard. “Everyone in Tortuga is already dead. They just haven’t finished dying yet. Burn it. Burn it to the ground, and make that son of a bitch come to you.”


	14. Beat to Quarters

Gillette was clean-shaven with his cover back in place before they pulled into Fort Charles’s docks. He rolled up his maps and notes, including the outline of Anamaria’ strategy, and waited on the maindeck as the _Pearl_ glided steadily into a berth. Sparrow was an excellent seaman, for all his other flaws. There wasn’t an inch beyond regulation clearance when the ship stopped.

Gillette descended the gangplank as soon as it was lowered. Schwansee was there, standing crisply, every button shined and every hair in place. 

“Captain,” he said coolly. “I trust your reconnaissance was fruitful?”

“Indeed, Lieutenant. Have the _Pearl_ resupplied. Provision her for maximum crew, including an extra tenth of gunpowder than her class would ordinarily allow. Where is the Commodore?” 

“With the widow Turner in his office. That is a pirate vessel.”

“Only until Governor Swann signs the Letters, assuming he has not already. When that occurs, she will be a privateer vessel under the service the British government. She will be seeing action as much as we will, and I will have her properly supplied for it. Please send for Mr. Murtogg and have him meet me at the Commodore’s office with haste.”

Schwansee’s jaw clenched. “Aye, sir.”

* * *

Norrington knew Gillette had returned from the sound of the footsteps ascending the stairs to his office. No one else took the stairs two and three at a time. Norrington waited for the jumping steps to pause.

“Enter,” he called, and continued speaking even as the door opened without knocking, “Welcome back, Captain. I hope your news is favorable. As far as we can tell, our phantom master has recently disposed of his spy. We must be close to his endgame.” He and Elizabeth had been considering the unremarkable Lydia Evans’s obviously supernatural murder for the last twenty minutes. The spy theory was the best they had.

Gillette made his obedience crisply, then began unrolling sheafs of paper. “The news is not encouraging. I do know who our master is and what he wants. The fortifications of his citadel are significant, but I believe Miss Anamaria has devised a viable strategy to overcome at least part of them. The rest will be more difficult.”

“Anamaria?” Norrington asked.

“Jack’s second mate,” Elizabeth supplied. She looked at Gillette. “I am pleasantly surprised you returned, and so conciliated with the crew. I was concerned that given your usual reflexive truculence, Captain Sparrow would enforce the Code harshly if you fell behind.”

Gillette opened his mouth and drew breath only to still when the Commodore held up his hand.

“Elizabeth, I am quite pleased that your spirits have recovered to such an extent that you again find pleasure in poking Gillette with sticks to see him bite,” Norrington said with all sincerity. “However, the Captain was in the middle of giving a report. _After_ , if you please.” 

Gillette’s brown eyes darkened with the clear desire to issue said biting retort despite the Commodore’s forestalling hand. Nonetheless, the Captain continued, rattling off observations which amounted to Tortuga having been converted into a deathtrap. Murtogg arrived part-way through, knocking only to be granted access by Gillette, who had clearly summoned him. Once the Captain related Sparrow’s observations regarding the invisible structure, it became clear why. 

Gillette then transitioned to what had happened to the town itself, both the occupying troops and the grim fate of its citizenry. Elizabeth picked up Gillette’s sketch of the embedded jewels. Her face was deathly pale. 

“My God.” She looked up at Norrington. “Kingston is the next target. In no fewer than ten days. He’ll have to wait for the civilians that were bound for Dagmar to be re-routed. No more than fifteen, if he holds to the same general timing.” She looked back down at the page. “We’ve been moving the refugees to the areas that haven’t been hit as hard as we go. I discounted herding them as a motive because Kingston is too well-fortified for striking at the refugees as a demoralizing tactic to be worth the cost but-- It’s got the largest population in the Caribbean, or close to it, even without the refugees. And the largest slave markets. James, if he’s using humans to fuel his spells--”

“Then he’d be all but unstoppable,” Gillette concluded. “He could restart his extermination program at will. The phantom master is Numair.”

“That’s bad,” Murtogg said with all the feeling of profanity. 

Norrington raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Gillette blinked.

“Shinarashi’s husband, sir” Murtogg supplied. “Or was. They met while she was in University. It was her marrying him that her family was killed for. She didn’t say how they managed that. Afterward, she and him – well. Storm of Death.”

“She’s married,” Norrington repeated. Why the Devil hadn’t the woman told him? The fact her spouse was a genocidal maniac was absolutely information he should have been given for its tactical import, if nothing else. It was obvious how she’d been backed into a corner as far as telling Murtogg and Gillette. Though that Gillette also hadn’t sought Norrington for solace afterward nor confided it in advance felt like a knife to the lungs.

“Well, more like-- stuck in limbo, sir,” Murtogg continued. “As far as she told me, she thought he was still on the other side of the Barrier. She thought he might even be dead, but I don’t think she was too eager to go looking to find out.”

“Looking for someone makes it easier for them to locate you if they are scrying without a focus,” Gillette said, as if that explained anything. “I know for a _fact_ that she did not want him showing up here, and given that he has manipulated her memory to force her return to who she was, I cannot argue that fear was unjustified. I’m sorry, Commodore, I assumed she would have informed you.”

“She most assuredly did not,” Norrington said. He took a deep breath. “All right. If he’s sending his forces to take Kingston as his master stroke, then the defensive force remaining at the Tower will be diminished. We will have no better opportunity. Mr. Murtogg, have the Admiral and the command staff brought to my office. Elizabeth, please babysit Sparrow. Keep him out of trouble. I will catch up with both of you after. Gillette, remain a moment while we wait for Gloucester and the rest.”

Elizabeth nodded, Murtogg made his obedience, and both departed. Gillette stood up straight.

“Our time is brief, so I will be straightforward,” Norrington said, not quite able to look at Gillette. “While I understand there are certain… delicacies of sentiment, if you will, I had rather thought that we were… of a certain familiarity, despite the difference in rank.”

“We are. I assumed that Doctor Hito would have told you. I wasn’t keeping secrets.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Norrington said tersely. “But is it so wrong of me to wish that upon being rejected in a proposal of marriage that you would choose to confide in me? Or share with me beforehand that things were... progressing so well?”

Gillette stared at him like he’d grown a second head and horns to boot. “That was _not_ the context of the discussion. I wasn’t proposing so much as... brainstorming solutions aloud. I discarded the idea immediately due to the manifest sincerity of Mr. Murtogg. She then informed me that a romance of any kind simply wasn’t possible. And why. I assumed that given how you press the matter with me that you would have also pressed the matter with her and been told off.”

“‘Solutions?’” Norrington asked. He was utterly mystified. He knew Andrew chafed at the idea of a respectable marriage even as he understood the inevitability of it, but surely prospects in the Caribbean were not so grim?

“Doctor Hito’s dress was subjecting you to speculation. Her marriage to another would have ended it.”

Norrington groped still for words. He had himself remarked upon Andrew’s devotion on many occasions. But this? 

Finally he settled on, “I would never ask you to consign yourself to a lifetime without the possibility of love just to protect me from gossip, Andrew. That is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” 

“I am already consigned to a lifetime without the possibility of love.” Gillette took a deep breath. His hands were trembling slightly. He pulled them behind his back. “Wedding Shinarashi would have also prevented nearly anyone from believing the truth to Mr. Kurtz’s rumors.”

There was no truth to Mr. Kurtz’s rumors. Norrington had never so much as thrown an arm over Gillette’s shoulder in joy, no matter how well-built said shoulders were, and Gillette knew it. Yet Gillette was as good as saying there was fire to that smoke, which could only mean that Gillette knew of Norrington's fancy, somehow. Except Gillette had intended protection from Mr. Kurtz’s rumors to be the _counter_ the idea of protecting _Norrington_ from gossip. That suggested--

Gillette was protecting himself from discovery. 

Norrington looked down and then looked away. 

“I don’t... entirely know what to say. I, uh.” He took a several breaths and tried again. He looked back at Gillette. “You are a fine man, Andrew. There is no one finer in all my acquaintance.” The Captain looked terribly happy. Gillette understood what that meant, as Elizabeth had not. “Nevertheless, I would not – That is, I know there may come a time where I must spend your life to purchase a victory. It is the nature of the Service. I will not risk it for my own satisfaction.” Rumors from vengeful civilians were one thing, getting caught actually doing it would be another thing entirely. 

Gillette cleared his throat. “Of course-- I have never--” Gillette stopped and tried to school his features into something more becoming a Captain in the King’s Navy. Then he smiled again, helplessly, soft and small and sad. “Would that the world were as we wish it.”

* * *

When the command staff arrived, they split into teams. Once briefed, Gloucester took the defense of Kingston and the bulk of the fleet for himself. Numair would have to send this pirate fleet in force to assault Kingston. Defending his own port from assault by an attacking fleet was the sort of engagement Gloucester had built his career upon. He left Marks with Norrington for the assault on Tortuga: exactly the sort of light, highly-mobile force Norrington preferred.

Schwansee, unsurprisingly, did not favor Anamaria’s strategy for attacking the citadel. Not only had a Black woman suggested it, but it was not an honorable assault. Schwansee wanted to storm up the streets with the army and take the Tower by traditional siegecraft. He and Gillette argued back and forth, their voices rising steadily. Norrington studied Gillette’s map in silence, moving chess pieces across the board in his mind, an invisible dance to the three beats of if-then-else.

“I will not suffer your damn Irish cowardice, sir! We are the King’s Navy, not pirates.” Schwansee was the first to start shouting.

“Enough,” Norrington barked. “You cannot have it both ways, that the Irish are forever fighting and yet also cowards. Pick one. However, the issue here is economy of resources. If we exhaust our ground force in taking the streets, we will not have sufficient manpower to withstand the deathtraps on the citadel walls _and_ to take the Tower itself. That is exactly what the Archmagus designed his defenses to do.”

Norrington set the map back on the table. 

“Miss Anamaria’s strategy is sound in principle, but we will refine it. First, we will borrow as many marines and willing redcoats as we can from the neighboring detachments. The _Pearl_ will take a third of them, or as many as she can carry, to the secondary entrance. They will lay claim to Fort Rocher secretly and wait for the _Pearl_ to reconvene with our fleet. The Archmagus will see us coming and prepare his defenses. 

“We will then spring his trap. Our ships will sail into the harbor and set loose our ground forces. The ground forces will establish a beachhead as if we do in fact mean to fight our way through the streets. The Archmagus will send his constructs forward and cut our ships off from behind with whatever ships he holds back from his assault on Kingston. He seems to favor magical solutions, so we will assume that he will utilize cloaking spells for surprise rather than coming around the cape. Our ships will have to watch the surface of the water for disturbance rather than looking for ships themselves.

“Once the trap is fully sprung and all citadel forces are fully engaged, we will set fire to the town. Once the blaze is in full force, then and _only then_ will the Rocher forces launch their attack on the Citadel itself – but not as a feint. They are to breach the walls and take the Tower by whatever means necessary. The burning town will cut off the Archmagus’s constructs from turning to support him, and both our beachhead and our ships will prevent his ships from doing the same. 

“Mr. Murtogg will go with the Rocher forces. He will assess what the invisible structure is. Whether to make its destruction a priority or not will be the decision of – there is a major at Montego Bay, is there not?”

“Holland, sir,” Pellew supplied.

“Will be the decision of Major Holland. I will command the beachhead,” Norrington continued. “Captain Gillette will head the sea offensive. I will send Lieutenant Groves to Kingston. The Archmagus will have to send Doctor Hito _somewhere_. If, as Captain Gillette suggests, the control over her memory is fragile, then we will have one person in each zone who stands a chance of breaking their control. Turning her considerable combat skills back to our side would be a tremendous advantage.”

“And if we can’t?” Schwansee demanded.

“Most Makai seem to be vulnerable to beheading,” Pellew said dispassionately. “How to do so is the more difficult question. Her invisibility and illusions would be of no benefit against Mr. Murtogg, but I doubt he could bring himself to make the blow even if he could somehow counter her speed and fox-fire. The rest of us do not have even that. The sorcerers’ abilities even the playing ground, but we do not have that, either.” Pellew drummed his fingers against the table. “I would hypothesize that for a mortal to kill a kitsune, much less a group of them, they had to have first rendered the kitsune unable to fight. Doctor Hito is exceedingly moderate in her drinking. Alcohol must affect her the same way it does us. Are any of her potions quick-working sedatives?”

Gillette shrugged. Norrington shook his head.

“A question for Mr. Murtogg, then. If there is such a potion, we should have it sent to Kingston with Mr. Groves.”

“And what about us?” Pullings demanded. 

“Unnecessary,” Pellew stated, “provided we make a small edition to the Commodore’s strategy. Captain Marks should head the sea offensive. Captain Gillette should wait in a longboat. Wherever Doctor Hito engages, he should move to that position with all due haste. I trust that you can make certain there will be a path through the flames should Doctor Hito engage Major Holland’s forces, sir?” Pellew looked at Norrington.

_He knows._

Norrington chastised himself for his surprise. Of course Pellew had figured out his commander wasn’t human -- and had the good sense to keep mum about it. He was not called “the Whirlpool” for no reason. Norrington lowered his eyes briefly with a small nod of acknowledgment. 

“I think you may be misapprehending the nature of my association with the Doctor,” Gillette said, frowning.

“I do not,” Pellew countered. “The syllable after the name in her speech means something. Everyone is -san save for you, the Commodore, and Mr. Murtogg. She is far more likely to call the Commodore by his surname than his Christian name, therefore, I conclude that -sama is related to rank somehow. Mr. Murtogg has no syllable attached to his name, and the nature of their affections is frankly obvious from his demeanor. Even still, in social environments she seeks your company first and his second. I have heard the two of you have entire conversations with subtext that not even I can puzzle out. You are as her brother.

“People discount the strength of friendship in favor of romantic attachment. The Archmagus has done the same, fortifying his control over the Doctor’s memory in regards to Mr. Murtogg but not taking equal care with you. It will be his undoing. Doctor Hito was ensorcelled once before. Any remaining affection she may possess for her husband will disappear entirely once she is able to realize he has done the same.”

“You are not proposing we hinge our entire strategy on the power of friendship,” Pullings scoffed.

Pellew blinked. “I suppose I am.”

Gillette was a mortal human. He wasn’t even a half-trained fox-demon like Norrington. If Pellew was wrong, Gillette would not be able to defeat Shinarashi in single combat or even hold her off long enough for Norrington to get to him. It would be an instantaneous death sentence. 

It was their best chance for victory. There would be no need for fish harvests around Tortuga. Shinarashi could simply drain the bay to death and sink Numair’s ships, leaving the entirety of Norrington’s forces free to assault the citadel.

“If there are sedatives in Doctor Hito’s collection, send half with Groves and half with Gillette,” Norrington ordered. “If you cannot break her control, Captain, at least get her down. Marks, you will lead the sea assault. Have all the ships readied to pick up our ground forces and rendez-vous here,” Norrington indicated the spot on the map. “Mr. Pellew, bespeak the quartermaster. I would have the Admiral’s ship, the _Justinian_ and my own disguised as Sparrow’s is. In addition, change the names on the stern. Mr. Pullings, find Mr. Murtogg and see about the sedatives. Captain, relay the strategy to the _Pearl_.” 

Elizabeth would want revenge as much as Sparrow. Forbidding Will’s civilian involvement had ended in the _Interceptor_ being stolen. Having Elizabeth locked in his cabin aboard the _Dauntless_ had somehow ended in her being inside the Ilsa del Meurta cave with Sparrow and Will. An unstable element in a critical situation was unacceptable. He need her abilities channeled. 

“Tell Sparrow these exact words: ‘The Commodore trusts you will choose a crew appropriate for the occasion, and see to their safety.’ He will understand.”

A pirate taking his meaning, and there would be no more rash actions from Will Turner ever again. His sword was the last of its kind. The last three years suddenly felt like sacks of sand laid across his shoulders and the top of his head. His chest hurt as badly as when Circe had held his heart to threaten his men.

“Mr. Schwansee, you will command the Fort in my absence. Return in the hour. I will have dispatches ready for the hippocampi to relay to the surrounding detachments. Dismissed.”

His team left. Norrington sat at his desk and stared at the surface. On one side were neatly overlaid stacks of manifests, dispatches, lists, maps, and notes. On the other side was a stack of blank paper, sealing wax, and a drawer of oilcloth bags. The silver snuff box his mother had given him for his birthday ages ago – used for portable ink – had disappeared completely. He had no idea where he’d placed it or even when he’d moved it.

Norrington wished that he had Gillette’s fire, so that he might throw his desk on its side and scream. He wished he had Shinarashi’s feminine nature, that he might lay his head on his arms and weep. He wished that he had Sparrow’s enfranchisement, that he might drink without consequence.

Instead he squared his shoulders, drew a blank page off the stack, and reached for a quill.

* * *

There were no quick-working sedatives in Shinarashi’s stores, only the sleeping draught Norrington had used on Elizabeth. Murtogg did not know if it worked when absorbed through the skin as it did when it was ingested. Norrington gave half of the remainder to Groves anyway before he and the _Lady Washington_ departed, in hopes it would at least slow the demon down. 

“Doubtless the Archmagus will send the full force of his mages to Kingston. You’ve been a skilled lieutenant and a good friend, Theodore. You certainly have saved my life at least once. Do-- do come back one piece,” Norrington said, offering Groves his hand.

“This isn’t goodbye, sir.” Groves shook Norrington’s hand anyway. “I don’t want to jinx it. Besides, if I don’t come back decorously wounded, Sarah Rochester can’t bring me soup and wish me a speedy recovery. That would be wasted opportunity.”

Norrington bowed his head and allowed a smile to curve his lips. “I am somehow still appalled at you. Must you always play the rake?”

“We’re all appalled by Theodore,” Gillette said, trying for levity and falling far short. He laid a hand on Grove’s shoulder. “Decorously wounded, no more. That is an order.”

“Aye, sir. Good luck, Captain. If there’s anyone who can pull off a strategy dependent on running your mouth, it’s you.” Gillette managed the barest quirk of his lips instead of laughter or even a retort. Groves saluted, then ascended the gangplank.

Gillette and Norrington watched him until he was safely aboard ship. Then they turned away and headed back along the dock side-by-side. There was much to do, and ever-less time to do it in.

* * *

Norrington went with Seaman Davidson and his boys to the home of Dr. Cavendish. He left them in the street. The front of Cavendish’s dwelling was his office. The back part of the house he used as his home was separated by a door. 

“I’m sorry, Commodore, I’m quite busy, and have no time for a new patient. You will have to make do with your mad marine,” Cavendish said, looking up from his writing desk. There was no one else in the office.

“My ‘mad marine’ will have other duties during our upcoming engagement,” Norrington said with a deceptively gentle smile. “However, I cannot in good conscience take a ship into battle with no surgeon at all. Therefore, I have come to ask that you serve temporarily aboard the _Stargazer_.”

“And I refuse. If your witch-woman has left your employ, those are your consequences to face. Good day.” Cavendish looked back down at his writing.

“Doctor Hito was kidnapped. I am asking nicely, Dr. Cavendish. If you come willingly, then whether I recover Doctor Hito or not, you may return to civilian practice afterward. If I must Press you, you will simply have serve until I have no more need of you.” Norrington smiled again. “I will remind you, the penalty for desertion is death.” 

Cavendish dropped his quill. “You’re lying.” The man’s voice was high and tight. “You can’t! That’s for sailors.”

“You will find I can. While sailors are the usual target, the Service has used impressment on skilled landsmen in the past. As a physician, you are the very definition of a skilled landsman.”

Cavendish shoved himself free of his desk, his chair clattering beside him as he ran for it.

“Davidson!” Norrington barked. The press gang was through the door and on Cavendish before he’d gotten half-way to his back door. Davidson’s men were his best, though he’d not needed them in nearly two years. Shinarashi’s improvements to provisions had kept a steady stream of poor volunteers filling Norrington’s ranks despite the casualties, and the steady prize money had kept them there.

“You can’t! You can’t! Unhand me, Mr. Ashton will hear of this!” Cavendish shouted until Davidson forced a gag in his mouth. The press gang dragged the doctor away. He’d be kept in the brig until the _Stargazer_ was too far out to sea for Cavendish to hope for escape. If he refused to perform on ship, he would be subject to Naval discipline. Most men didn’t push those boundaries more than once.

* * *

While the Commodore was seeing to their surgeon problem, Gillette had a pre-departure stop of his own to make. The _Pearl_ was a hotbed of activity, swarming with the bulk of the Fort’s marines and various quartermasters’ boys, all being chased about by a harried and exasperated Sparrow. He could hear Gibbs calmly calling orders below-decks. Of course, Gibbs had experienced load-out before.

“In Mato Grosso,” Anamaria said by way of greeting, leaning against the rail, “they have these ants. They don’t build nests, they just swarm across the forest floor in a carpet one inch thick, consuming everything in their path. I wonder if they know they’ve got cousins in the Indies?”

Gillette chuckled. “It will be over soon. Besides, I hardly think you can complain over free provisions and powder.” Anamaria shrugged, but she also cocked her head at him in agreement. “Speaking of, this is for luck.” Gillette held out a long tubular object wrapped in paper. 

Anamaria took it with a puzzled expression. She ripped open one end of the package, discretely tearing a line in the paper. She stopped when she passed the bone tip to reveal the lace below. It was a parasol.

“I will see you on the other side,” Gillette said, and turned to leave.

“Dragonslayer,” Anamaria said. Gillette turned back, fixing her with his most annoyed look. Sparrow’s idiotic nickname had better not catch on. “For Navy, you’re all right.”

Gillette quirked his lips in something near a smile. “For a pirate, Miss Anamaria, you are ‘all right.’” He inclined his head in farewell, and descended back down the gangplank.

* * *

Zayin watched through Mirror as his fleet – down to seven now – sailed toward Kingston. Still, seven ships and seven mages would be more than enough to take Kingston, particularly with Norrington’s fleet spread out for maximum mobility, never knowing where Zayin was going to strike next. 

“Show me the _Surprise_ and the _Stargazer_ ,” Zayin commanded.

Mirror was silent for long moments.

“Perplexing, you will agree – Norrington’s ships I cannot see. Yet for him to in Port Royal stay, for this long, is not his way.”

Zayin ran his thumb back and forth along his fingertips. Norrington’s pet pirate had made contact with his Naval forces. The man had to know about the citadel. Why would he stay at Port Royal? He wouldn’t.

Had he had managed to suss out Zayin’s purpose for Kingston from his little bird’s song? If he had, then Kingston would be as blanketed as Port Royal had been. He gave Mirror the appropriate orders. Mirror showed him Kingston promptly. The harbor was packed to the gills, but with assorted merchant ships. Zayin rattled off the names of the rest of Norrington’s fleet. Mirror reported a negative result for each one.

“Where the Hell did he _go_?” 

“The question had best be rhetorical, friend, for I am at my very wits’ end,” Mirror said with something approaching despair. 

“It’s not your fault,” Zayin stated tersely. “Scrying without a focus is challenging even for you.” Zayin moved sideways along the circle of mirrors to the weather-mirror. He centered the view on Tortuga and then spiraled outward in sections. After twenty minutes he saw it: three Spanish merchant vessels headed straight for the island. They’d be there in less than a day. 

Zayin changed the view to the stern of the vessels. They all had Spanish names. Still, merchant vessels did not usually travel in packs. 

Zayin drew breath sharply through his teeth and let it out his nose. He’d been looking for the damn ships’ names. Not the man who led them, who was shrouded more often than not.

“Oh, you clever shit. There was a reason I wanted you broken before I started.” Even if he sent a message to Oyun to send some of her ships back, they’d never make it in time. If six of those Kingston merchant vessels were, in fact, Norrington’s damn fleet, undermanning Oyun would only lose him Kingston. 

He could send Ryoko. Shifted into water, she could meet the ships half-way and sink them.

He could. He didn’t want to. Oyun hadn’t recognized what his wife had started singing before the suspicion set in, but Fionn had recognized the language. The song wasn’t spellcraft. But then again, the fair folk didn’t need spellcraft to enchant. Music did for them just fine. Whatever half-breed changeling child or -- Gods forbid -- randy leprechaun’s great-grand-bastard Norrington had on staff had sung an enchantment so strong it had damn near punched through Zayin’s magic in his own citadel.

Sending Ryoko against that magic again, alone--

No. It simply wasn’t acceptable. The weather mirror could not summon a storm strong enough to sink a sailor of Norrington’s experience, and even if it could, the damn demon would simply quell the waves and trim his sails. Zayin would simply have to make his stand at the citadel, and trust in the defenses he’d laid. If he had to drain all his drones to death to win, so be it. He would soon enough have the population of Kingston and all the refugees of Jamaican waters to draw from.


	15. Revanchist

Gloucester had had slits carved in the thick walls on either side of the harbor, and canons placed on the decking. They were angled, with the left side pointing right and the rights side pointing left. Groves had taken every anchor chain that could be spared, forging them together into two long chains. They were anchored on the far side of the harbor. On the near side, they were spliced with rope as thick as a man’s wrist. For legitimate ships, the chains could be lowered below the draft and then pulled taught. When not actively lowered, they were anchored to the stone of the wall. 

Completing the projects in less than a week had taken every strong back, slave or free, citizen or refugee, in the city. There was a watch posted at both ends of the chain, and the watches had their own watchmen disguised as beggars partway down the dock. Even an invisible ship would have to deal with the chains, even if only to plough through them with magically-enhanced hulls.

The day after the re-routed ships arrived, Groves was manning the mid-dock watch. He was hunched over, his back leaning against a pylon. The chain watches were standing in formation, two men facing in and two men facing out.

The chains began unhooking themselves. The watch did not move. 

_Got you_ Groves thought even as he leapt to his feet. “Let fly!” 

Groves's call was echoed by others. Men poured from the buildings nearest the walls, running headlong down the decking to begin loading canons. The staccato of marine drums filled the air, the Kings’s Colors were run up, sailors shed their coats to reveal the uniforms beneath, sails unfurled as the Navy ships pushed away. The canons on the wall boomed in rolling thunder, a lattice of flying lead across the water, the stink of gunpowder thick on the air.

As was the sound of shattering wood and screaming men.

The invisible ships heaved and rippled as they approached where the chains had been. The illusions collapsed. Gore Crows shrieked their terrible echoing cries, pouring skyward from the pirate decks. Their talons held orbs that sparkled in the sunlight.

Dockhands and beggars were pulling canvas back from longboats, already in the water.

“Boarding crews with me!” Groves bellowed as he heard the pounding of running men behind him. He shed his dirty overcoat and drew his sword from the sheath strapped along his spine to disguise it even as he jumped into the nearest longboat. He raised the blade over his head. “For the King! For England! And for the prize!” Men were shouting behind him, beside him, with him and around him, as the Gore Crows’ deadly rain began to fall.

* * *

Most pirates chose to die rather than serve. In the end, they did both. The three functional ships remaining in the bay were crewed by the skeletal revenants of their former crews. As Norrington’s ships entered the bay, they awoke. They did not move with the quickness nor the cleverness they had when they were alive, but they moved. They closed in behind the four vessels in the Tortuga harbor.

The swift, sharp brig and the galleon turned to face them, providing cover for the ship of the line and the man-o-war to begin disgorging longboats filled with men in red.

Numair grabbed Ryoko’s wrist as she moved toward the door.

“Patience. Let them exhaust themselves taking the streets,” he said, not looking away from the window as his trap closed around Norrington and his men. 

“You were never one for patience before,” Ryoko accused. 

“I’ve learned the value,” Numair said. His skeletal crew closed fully with the two swift ships. The air was thick with the smoke of canon fire, a faint pop-pop-pop between the distance and the reinforcements of the Tower walls. The longboat men were fanning out along the beach. A gesture and the constructs of the city began moving as well. The first rank would be drawn into conflict on the beach. Once Norrington defeated them and began to advance, the rest would swarm through the streets and make him and his men fight for every inch of ground. 

Numair watched as the men fought the first wave, cutlass and pistol, silver shot if the way the constructs flailed as they turned to ash was any indication. Numair gestured again, pulling the constructs back, kiting Norrington’s men into the choked and tight city streets. 

Norrington’s men pulled back, abandoning the man to stand alone on the edge of the city.

Numair was not so fool as to believe his merry men would turn--

Blue green fox-fire bloomed throughout the city in an uncontrolled wave. It burned hot and fast and fierce, careening like a drunkard from construct to construct and mostly-dead drone to mostly-dead drone. But it spread nonetheless, ever-outward. The skeletal soldiers crumpled, the black lightning orbs collapsed, the shadowmen disintegrated.

Numair cried out as pain bloomed along his forearm. He pulled his wrist up on reflex. Ryoko was already out the door. 

“Ryoko!” Numair shouted, holding the scratches with is good hand. He opened his mouth to cast--

– and felt the floor vibrate with impact. The city was still burning, it hadn’t come from the bay.

Another impact vibrated the floor. 

Numair ran across his office to look out the opposite window. The old fort was alive with men who were not fox illusion. Numair had spelled the bay against teleportation and Norrington had no mage. The men firing the old canons and lobbing bombs at his walls could not be there. They simply couldn’t be.

But they were.

Numair changed spells, holding his good hand up and casting a shield over the citadel. His soldiers would be moving to storm the old pirate fort. 

The orange sphere flickered dangerously under the twin forces of supplying Numair’s shield and the burning of the drones that fed it. Norrington had cut himself off from his men to starve Numair of resources. Numair adjusted the spell to fortify only the landward side of the citadel. 

He could not follow Ryoko and hold the shield. Her love for him would have to be enough to protect her from whatever enchantments might come.

* * *

“Wear away! Wear away!” Jack called. He coughed on the smoke, but the _Pearl_ pulled away from the two heavy ships behind them. Sails snapped and wood creaked, barely audible over the boom of the canons. The _Surprise_ was doing the same, pulling forward. The longboats were away. The heavy ships were running out guns. There was no way for them to beat windward with any speed, but they didn’t need to. Not with the light ships driving the skeletal vessels forward like herding sheep. The heavy ships were unfurling just enough sail to drift them out of the way of impact.

The skeletal vessels were furling sail, trying to slow their forward momentum.

“Keep firing, you sons of dogs!” Jack shouted, pulling downward on the wheel even as it fought him under the force the rudder was under. “We pull this off we’re free men!”

Elizabeth was hauling on the main-mast ropes with the mainmast-men. Gibbs was hollering down the stairs. Another boom-boom-boom volley of canon fire. Returning fire shattered men and railings and rigging, made the deck vibrate under Jack’s feet. Elizabeth was driven to the deck with the force of it. She pushed herself to her feet and grabbed hold of her rope, hauling again. He could barely see the other ship through the smoke.

* * *

Light, three count, drop. Light, three count, drop. Grab the flintlock handed to her, fire down at the top of a monkey-man’s skull. Light, three count, drop. Duck out of the way of a Gore Crow projectile. Let the sand-boys douse it. Back to lighting. 

Anamaria moved without thinking, her breath choked with the stink of burned flesh and burning carrion. The sharp-shooters were firing up, silver shot to down the damn crows. Everyone could see the shimmer in the air around the Tower. Neither canon shot nor incendiaries could pierce it.

The besiegers had become the besieged, with more reinforcements pouring through the invisible gate in the courtyard. None of the canons had a clear shot. They had to take the walls, take the courtyard, bomb the gate.

They couldn’t even leave the Fort. Not with that damn shield. 

Murtogg dragged the man next to Anamaria back to his makeshift hospital in the corner of the second-floor colonnade.

“Any ideas?” Murtogg hollered. Without looking, she knew he was patching and stitching. If his patient was dead, the corpse would be thrown over the edge as one more obstacle for the monkey-men. The citadel soldiers who pushed through hacked at the wood door with their strange scythes. The door was holding for now, mostly because the monkey-men couldn’t get in many good swings. It would not hold forever. The soldiers would then come pouring up the stairs like a flood.

“It’s your turn, Navy,” Anamaria snarled. Fire down. Light, three count, drop.

* * *

The press of bodies was suffocating, tight and close, reeking of fear and blood and piss and offal. If the body in front of him wasn't clad in blue, Groves stabbed or shot. He dodged and stepped, struck forward with blade, and sometimes throwing the enemy under the press of men to be trampled. The air was so thick and black he could not see the other ships. He couldn’t breathe. All Groves could do was press ever forward as lighting crackled and bit the air around him.

* * *

His men fell back out of the splash zone and Norrington stood alone as the constructs stopped their calculated withdrawal. They began to move forward--

Norrington took a deep breath, feeling the men at his back, the ships farther on, the weight of his uniform, everything that bound him to the Navy at his core. He remembered the ashen faces of refugees and the broken remains of homes, livelihoods. Everything he’d sworn to protect, in shambles. All at Numair’s order, at his command.

Even William Turner. No more than a tool, a means to an end to extort Elizabeth. William, twelve years old, following at his heels as much as Elizabeth did, and as grimly determined to wear the Lieutenant down. Norrington had been two years into adulthood, three years into sobriety. He’d never known he could be a soft touch until the pair of them had cracked him open. 

Now William was dead. And Elizabeth grieved. 

“For William.”

The fox-fire came. It wasn’t the graceful cresting wave of Shinarashi’s casting. It jumped wildly from target, spreading in fits and starts. But it spread, engulfing the city. The dead things screamed. The stink of it brought the back of Norrington’s off-hand to his nose. He could hear the old hands cheering behind him.

There were four Shinarashis running along the rooflines to meet him – and an invisible fifth, he knew. Norrington ducked and rolled even though none of the four were near him. 

The fifth landed in his men instead. Three were beheaded and one lost an arm before they could bring flintlocks to bear. Three appeared, the fourth disappeared. Norrington kicked sand in an arc with all his strength. His men stumbled, holding their eyes, but the fourth Shinarashi reappeared doing the same. Norrington rushed forward, harder than it would have been on actual ground, and threw Shinarashi away from his men before she could recover. 

The demon woman rolled, came up, rushed him, scrambling in the loose sand. He heard men behind him burn even as she struck in a vicious downward swing.

“Your quarrel is with me,” Norrington said, parrying and turning, then parrying again. He held his off hand out for balance. The dead were still shrieking.

“That’s why I’m going to make you watch them die.” Upswing and feint, a stab to the shoulder she blocked. More men screaming as they burned behind him. Norrington let loose fire before him. Shinarashi jumped out of the way, twisting as she sailed over him. 

Norrington turned, blocked the blow. His men were now in front of him, behind Shinarashi. He didn’t dare cast again. 

“A 'níon mhín ó, sin anall na fir shúirí, a mháithair mhín ó, cuir na roithléan go dtí mé.” 

Norrington didn’t recognize the language Gillette was singing in, which meant it was probably Irish. Gillette would speak French and sing in it readily enough, but his mother’s tongue was worse for his career and he was commensurately more cagey. He had never sung or spoken it for Norrington. But then again, Norrington had discreetly refrained from asking. 

It was clearly the song Gillette had referenced in his report, though, because Shianrashi _froze_. 

“Dúlamán na binne buí, dúlamán Gaelach, dúlamán na farraige, 's é b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn.” The longboat pulled close to the beach. “You recognize that song. Your first day as surgeon.” Gillette kept talking as he exited the boat. Shinarashi didn’t look away from Norrington but she didn’t bring her sword to bear either. “There was a sixteen year-old boy who was bleeding internally. You couldn’t save him. He wanted to hear a song from home as his last request. I honored it. You watched him die and you wept because there was nothing at all you could do to stop it. That’s why it’s a sad song.”

Gillette held his hands out to the side, advancing along the beach. 

“You could have let the Commodore die even before then. Yet you chose to heal him instead. Once your curse was broken, you chose to keep being a doctor. To heal _us_. To save _us_.” Gillette shook his head. “This isn’t what you chose. It's what Numair wants you to be.”

“Andrew-kun,” Shinarashi said. She lowered her sword. “That’s your name.” Her face crumpled in pain. She brought one hand up to hold her forehead. She shook her head, letting out a sharp breath.

When she lowered her hand she turned in a circle. The marines huddled on the beach stood slowly. 

“Inari forgive me,” Shinarashi whispered.

The sky flashed as if struck by lighting, and the crack that split the air was the same. Norrington didn’t recognize the dark-haired man who stood on the beach. The look of unbridled fury on his face introduced him all the same. 

“I’m going to kill _you_ personally,” he promised. 

Shinarashi stepped in front of Gillette in one graceful turn and raised her sword to parry position.

“You will not.”

* * *

“The shield is down!” Holland yelled loudly enough to be heard on the floor below. “Fire all! Get that gate down! Men, form up, I’ll want a wedge as soon as that gate is down. Protect the canon! Go! Go! Go!”

* * *

Groves pushed through the last man, heaving his corpse down the stairs into the crowd below him. He ascended the final stair to the quarterdeck.

The Asian mage was panting. Her brightly-colored clothes were dark with sweat. She raised her hand. Flame sprang from it. Groves pivoted, desperately hiding his sword-arm, bringing his gun-hand up--

The pain was blinding, all along his left side, and drove him to his knees. He rolled on the deck blindly, hoping it would suffocate the flames.

* * *

The skeletal crew was falling apart, legs and arms dropping. The ships foundered, rigging falling lax and sails drooping. The heavy ships doubled their efforts, the cannon shot a rolling thunder without end. The ships splintered and cracked, listing dangerously. 

Elizabeth grabbed Jack’s arm.

“Look!”

There was a mage on the beach. He shot crackling black lighting at Gillette. The sea swept up to take the blow. Norrington was raining sword blows on the mage’s back, but none of them were connecting. Shinarashi’s fire leapt across the space, but it, too, wouldn’t land. Gillette was nearly running to the side, moving behind Shinarashi even as the mage turned to let loose his lighting again. Again the sea swept forward to absorb the blow.

“Come about!” Jack barked, tapping the wheel with one hand. Elizabeth took the other side, hauling up even as Jack pulled down. The ship shuddered and shook, fighting them for every inch.

* * *

The wedge was three men deep. The second row fired their pistols at point blank through the gaps in the first row, then stepped back to reload while the third row stepped forward to fire. The first row was melee, fighting with unloaded muskets capped in bayonets to counter the monkey-men’s pole-arms. And all the while, the wedge advanced forward. At the center of the wedge was a canon on wheels. Anamaria had not drilled with the marines day in and out to move like this in her sleep, so she was to operate the canon. 

When they reached the outer wall and its destroyed gate, Anamaria crouched. The canon had been loaded and tamped inside Fort Rocher. She managed the firing assemblage with quick and deft movements even as Murtogg locked the wheels. 

Anamaria stood back. “Ready!” 

The tip of the wedge parted. Anamaria fired. The canon shot caught the monkey-men in the middle, blasting them back into the gate. The gate shattered like splinters. The wall shattered around it, turning to powder and spreading out in a fan on the ground. 

“Onward!” Holland commanded, and the marines closed ranks to surge forward. Murtogg grabbed her arm.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“About damn time,” Anamaria shot back.

* * *

“You couldn’t even seduce your own wife without sorcery,” Gillette called, running out towards the steadily-blackening water. Norrington and Shinarashi stopped. Numair didn’t notice or care.

The marines had a clear shot. They all took it. The velocity of the shot was absorbed by Numair’s shielding. The musket balls dropped harmlessly into the sand.

Numair shot his lighting again, and again the sea swept up in front of him. 

Norrington had closed to melee. He stabbed at Numair’s back with all his strength, a vicious downward swing that rang against the shield.

Numair turned around.

“You’re no better than the Santaka men,” Gillette called and Norrington was again forgotten. Another crackling blast of lighting that the waves absorbed. Gillette ran along the water, and Numair followed. Shinarashi’s fire burned around his shield. Gillette turned around. Numair was facing Norrington again. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, your wife is trying to help me kill you.”

The crackling blast fired in Gillette’s direction was the largest yet. Gillette could feel the nauseating not-heat of it even through the water. He turned back toward the burning city and began sprinting across the beach. Again Norrington fell back out of the marines’ field of fire.

Numair’s chest was heaving. The veins on his face were black, standing out against his pale skin. He stopped moving when the musket shots struck his shield. Gillette couldn’t let him decide he was weakening enough to make retreat advisable. 

“Shinarashi loves me more than you, and I’m not even her lover.”

The crackling black lightning lit up the water in front of Gillette and back along the wave to half-way in the bay. Numair was driven to his knees.

“I broke your spell with the power of friendship.” Gillette made his voice his most supercilious, every ounce of British upper-crust contempt he’d learned from long practice. “Some ‘great love.’”

Norrington leaped forward instead of sending the sea. The impact drove Gillette to the ground.

* * *

“Fire all!” Jack ordered coldly. Elizabeth relayed his orders, and the canons of the _Black Pearl_ began to fire, round after round, at the nearly-exhausted mage on the beach.

* * *

The monstrous reinforcements pouring through that Gate clearly indicated it was the Archmagus’s bridge back to his own dimension. The mages who had build the Barrier had left Makai to get away from mortal man. Shinarashi had always been clear on that point. She had also been very clear that those self-same mages were the only hope of undoing the damage wrought by Barbossa. 

The mages clearly didn’t care if other mages ventured outside the Barrier’s wall. But what if mortal man got in?

That was the idea, anyway. 

He and Anamaria ran for it, breaking ranks and running along the inside wall. The monkey-men were rushing Holland’s forces as they pressed onward to the Tower. At first, none of them paid attention to Anamaria and Murtogg. 

That changed as they neared the gate. He and Anamaria drew, firing as they ran, discarding the four flintlocks as soon as they were expended. They slid, rolling under the swung polearms.

They pushed up, grabbing the edge of the gate and pulling themselves through--

\--the world went white.

* * *

Groves pushed himself up. His left arm was so much useless meat hanging from his shoulder. He lurched forward, painful whimpers escaping his control. He slid his blade forward and up anyway, the cutlass piercing the woman’s brightly-pattered coat and the flesh beneath in one smooth slide. She made a wet noise.

The world was spotting at the edges. The oak deck rushed up to meet him. The spots became the totality of Theodore’s vision.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” a voice demanded in the endless white. 

“Well, see, you’re the mages that built the Barrier, right? Well, see, there’s a tear in it. Cursed pirates, Aztec curse. It’s-- it’s a long story. Archmagus Numair has used that tear to build this gate, see, for reinforcements. We came through. And I was-- I was thinking you might do something about it. Please.” Murtogg couldn’t tell if he was standing up straighter or not. He didn’t seem to have a body. 

“Your kind burned ours for refusing to make you as we were. You are bloodthirsty barbarians with no thought beyond ‘fight, flight, fuck.’ Why should we help you?” the disembodied voice demanded.

“Because it’s helping yourselves,” Anamaria said. “This Archmagus of yours picked a fight with the entire British Royal Navy. They know about magic and they know about how it can be used in war. They’re attacking the citadel this gate’s in right now. The sun doesn’t set on the British Empire, but if you think they’ll be content with ruling all of one world, you’re wrong. There’ll be a chap with a flag coming through claiming this for the King in half a minute if you don’t do something about it.”

There was silence for a space of breaths.

“And why should we believe you would help us?”

“I’m not. I’m helping myself. I want him gone. Like the Code says, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend, even if he’s my enemy. For now.’” Murtogg tried to point at Anamaria with both hands and nod to bolster her point. He had no idea if he succeeded. 

The voices were silent for a long time. 

“We have an accord.”

* * *

When the smoke and sand cleared, Numair was still standing. He was bent forward, his hand braced on his knees. There was a loud crack. Norrington looked up and over. The crown of the Tower was turning to powder, spilling down like a failing sand castle. The wall below began to give way. Norrington stilled the fox-fire burning the town. He no longer needed it.

The Archmagus was coated in sand.

“So your word is cloudless rain after all, Ryoko,” Numair said to Shinarashi. His breathing was shallow. “Until one of us died. You promised to be my wife. See what your promise is worth.”

“You are absolutely right,” Shinarashi said. A swing of her blade separated Numair’s head from his shoulders. Blood spurted in six-foot arcs as his body fell. Shinarashi dropped her sword and scrambled across the sand. The threw her arms around Gillette’s shoulders first then, to Norrington’s surprise, his own. 

“I’m so sorry, Norrington-sama,” she babbled into his shoulder, “please forgive me. I swear, I swear I thought he’d just show up with a pack of skeletons if he ever found me. This was never like him. If I’d thought for a minute I would have said something. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” The demon’s shoulders shook. 

Norrington reached around and rested a hand between her shoulder blades. 

“It is not so unreasonable that if you could be so different after two centuries as to be unrecognizable, that so could he. Your taste in men has certainly improved, at any rate.”

Shinarashi made a sound that was both laughter and weeping.

* * *

Gloucester watched the mage on the rightmost ship look down at his hands. He looked up at the British soldiers advancing along the deck and disappeared into thin air. The mage in the middle ship did the same. 

The pirates began throwing down their swords.

“Gentlemen,” Gloucester announced. “The day is ours. Kingston is safe.”

“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” The cheer carried down the docks and up into the ships, and continued even as the men began clapping irons on the surrendered.

* * *

As soon as they were back outside the gate, a sharp crack grabbed their attention. Anamaria and Murtogg looked up. The crown of the Tower was turning to black sand and falling in on itself.

“Get out of here!” Anamaria screamed at Holland’s men. She grabbed Murtogg’s arm and began running toward the outer wall even as it, too, began to turn to sand. They raised their arms over their heads to protect themselves, part running and part wading through the sand. With that much sand falling, anyone it fell on was a goner. 

They were trapped. The Commodore’s fox-fire was as much of a death sentence as suffocation. 

The fire began to fade. Murtogg silently prayed his thanks to every God he’d ever heard of, pouring on the speed. He and Anamaria jumped over the charred remains of skeletons and the melted orbs. They could hear the roar of cascading sand behind them, and the running of Holland’s men. 

There was a painful stitch in Murtogg’s side, but he didn’t dare stop. At least he reached the beach and skidded to a halt, turning to propel the men behind him on the beach with his arm.

“Go, go, go,” he called as the men poured past him. They were running out of the other streets as well. Some of the men were pouring out of the streets over by the docks. 

At last the deafening rumble of the sand subsided. Black sand slid to a halt four feet from the edge of the street. Murtogg bent forward, his chest heaving.

“Did everyone get out?” Holland demanded. “How many did we lose? Marines, form up! Headcount!”

“Dragonslayer!” Anamaria called, sounding for all the world like she was angry. Murtogg looked to the sand. He couldn’t see anyone flailing--

“I just solved all your damn problems for you,” Anamaria continued, pointing back at the sand as she advanced down the beach. “And I almost got crushed to death by an overgrown sand castle. You owe me the dress, too. I mean fancy. Lace, and-- so much lace. And little embroidered flowers. The lady-est dress ever made.”

“ _Captain Gillette_ and what on Earth would I know about fashion?” the Captain demanded crossly, holding out his hand for Anamaria to help him up. “Just give me a rough estimate of cost and I’ll give you the funds outright.”

“Fine,” Anamaria said, apparently mollified. 

“White, LeHah, Carrington,” Gillette called out. The summoned marines pulled themselves out of formation. “Ready the boats for return to the ships. It’ll take several trips so be sharp.” Anamaria shook her head, waded into the water, and began swimming for the _Pearl_.

Murtogg barely heard any of it. Shinarashi was standing next to the Commodore. Her black hair was down and her ears were out, her clothes were like nothing he’d ever seen before, her eyes were puffy and red, but she was there. Murtogg walked jerkily down the beach like one of the Archmagus’s constructs. He swept Shinarashi into a hug, picking her up and spinning her around. He set the demon down and framed her perfect face in his hands.

“I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again.”

Shinarashi reached up and grabbed his wrists. She squeezed them lightly, her lips pursing and flattening as she decided what to say.

“The next person who mind-controls anyone, especially me,” she finally settled on, “I am going to kill with my bare hands. I have had-- entirely enough of the entire concept for a lifetime.” Her fingers drew small circles on his wrists. She suddenly frowned. “Benjamin, if you’re here, who’s in the cockpit?”

“The Commodore pressed Dr. Cavendish,” Murtogg said. 

“Cavendish?” Shinarashi demanded, blanching in anger. “The charlatan? He'll have been at the men with saws, he has absolutely no--” She was suddenly fox and then water, racing back to the _Stargazer_. Not for the first time, Murtogg wondered if Shianrashi’s zeal for her profession was a particularity of her race, or just her.

“You’d best be on the first boat back, Mr. Murtogg. You could not pay me to be Dr. Cavendish right now.”

Murtogg startled. He’d completely forgotten the Commodore was there.

“One other thing," the Commodore continued. "I understand that you are not an officer. However, I expect that you will show every ounce the respect and constancy of an officer – both until I give away a bride and afterwards.”

“Assuming she says yes. She might want the Captain to give her away, sir. I mean, once Shinarashi really figures out what the traditions mean. I don’t think they have weddings where she’s from.”

Norrington’s eyes narrowed.

“But I’m sure I can talk her out of it, sir. Right. On my way, sir.” Murtogg saluted and made every haste to the first boat back. Norrington crossed the beach to Gillette. He watched the first set of longboats push off from the harbor. A second set was being launched from the _Stargazer_ , the _Surprise_ (who would be carrying the men that had been on the _Black Pearl_ ), and the _Justinian_.

“Longest three years of my life,” Gillette stated. He looked over at the city. Fox-fire did not burn wood nor heat metal. Still, the stone was blackened. Every building would be filled with burned corpses. A quarter of the town had been swept away to make room for the citadel, and now another quarter had been buried in black sand. One of the three ships Numair had crewed with skeletons was sunk in the middle of the bay. It would be a hazard to sail around until the bay could be dredged. The other two ships had longboats headed out to them to be taken in hand. They had no idea how Kingston had fared. With Numair dead, even if the mages had won, they could be routed. “Still,” Gillette continued, “this is the end of piracy in the Caribbean. Everything you set out to accomplish, James. At least some good came out of it.”

Norrington rested a hand on his sword hilt. Will, Marcus Black, two ships’ worth of crews. A veritable army of letters home informing those who waited that there would be no more letters ever again. Will had sacrificed himself to keep Shinarashi from being taken, and she’d been taken anyway. Nor had everyone in Tortuga had been a pirate. Numair had been utterly indiscriminate. They were all mortals. All meat to be wasted. It was all so senseless. So completely, utterly senseless. He felt it in his bones. He felt it in the way the lingering smoke made his eyes burn.

“The Caribbean is saved,” Norrington said softly. “But the cost is so much more than I imagined it would be.”


	16. Those Who Remain

Shinarashi wasn’t certain what she expected when she returned to reclaim her cockpit from the charlatan occupying it. For him to start crying and hand over her tools like a gift wasn’t it. Still, a gift was a gift and he was uncharacteristically willing to take orders until Murtogg arrived. Shinarashi lost herself in the rhythm of her work. Medicine could not be practiced with half a mind, and the wounded sailors and soldiers presented her took all her concentration.

After a while Elizabeth appeared, dressed like a pirate’s cabin-boy and demanding to help. Shinarashi had Cavendish return to the deck, and then used a wave to send him to the _Surprise_. Hopefully his uncharacteristically helpful demeanor would hold for Worley (who had embraced cleanliness with a zeal Shinarashi entirely approved of). Elizabeth had a steady temperament, a sharp mind, and was utterly unafraid of blood. Between the two of them she had her cockpit back in order and Norrington’s men squared away in excellent time. Below-decks steadily filled as they took on the ground forces. 

As Murtogg made his usual rounds with candy and rum, Shinarashi took her instruments back to the cookstove. Most Navy ships cooked with open fires on the deck. Norrington had used the prize money from his first captured pirate ship to put in actual stoves bolted to the floor on the _Dauntless_ , with a pipe inside a pipe serving as a chimney leading up to the main deck. They were far safer, took less wood to use, and could be utilized in the rain – thought not a full storm. He’d repeated the installation with all his ships thereafter. 

Shinarashi boiled water and scrubbed the steel clean. Elizabeth appeared as she was wiping everything dry and putting it away. She carried a pair of teacups from Norrington’s office, the set Shinarashi knew Groves favored. Elizabeth bypassed the stove to step into the stores. 

“Which ones are the poisoned ones?” she called from the stores.

“Red X,” Shinarashi stated.

“Of course, should have guessed,” Elizabeth grumbled. She came back out after a while carrying a cup in each hand.

“That is against regulations,” Shinarashi said, not pausing in packing her tools away.

Elizabeth set the cups on one barrel and then began rearranging the others. Once she’d made a sort of bench and footrest, she picked up her teacups. She set them on one barrel, hopped on the one next to it, and rested her feet on the footstool barrel.

“I’m a civilian,” Elizabeth said. She picked up both cups and held one out to Shinarashi. “Come on. I officially call this meeting of the ‘We Killed Our Husbands to Win the War Club’ to order.” She rocked the teacup in her hand back and forth a little, invitingly.

Though her assistance with the refugees and the war in general had garnered a truce from even Gillette, she and the widow Turner had never been close. They were certainly not friends. Still-- 

Still.

Shinarashi put down her towel and hopped up on the barrel. She took the teacup of rum and crossed her ankles on the barrel before her. She leaned back against the stack of barrels behind them as Elizabeth did. Their shoulders brushed. The rum smelled sharp and sweet. Benjamin didn’t particularly like the taste of alcohol in general. James absolutely forbade having it in his house, even among the staff, and he’d fire anyone who disobeyed. Short of the occasional glass of wine with Gillette, Shinarashi didn’t drink. She took an experimental sip. It was sweeter than sake but not as sweet as plum sake, and it burned both her mouth and her throat.

She was going to have to agree with Benjamin on this one. 

Shinarashi lowered the teacup to her lap, holding it in both hands as if it actually held tea.

“I’m sorry,” Shinarashi said softly. “I got captured anyway. I wanted-- I knew Lydia didn’t have what it took--” Shinarashi took a deep breath. “I never saw it coming. By the time I realized what she was lying _about_ the beacon had already started working. And I never realized it was Numair the entire time. He sent Rogir and Areen and I still-- I didn’t put it together and I should have and if I had-- If I had-- Mr. Turner would still be alive.”

“It’s not your fault,” Elizabeth said. She took a long sip from her cup. “I wish it were. It would be easier if it were. But it’s not.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Besides, you chopped the head off of the man whose fault it was. That predisposes me to charity.” Elizabeth smiled grimly. She drained her cup. “If you’re not going to drink that, hand it over.”

They traded cups and stared silently at the wall. 

Shinarashi still didn’t like the taste, but she was starting to think maybe taste wasn’t the point. She hopped down off her barrel and ducked into the stores with Elizabeth’s cup. Norrington and the cook gave her a carte blanche because they trusted her, and here she was abusing it. This would be the only time, Shinarashi promised herself. She returned to her barrel. She a long draft from the cup, half in one go. This really was the most disgusting substance. Still, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast? Lunch maybe? The world was feeling much warmer and congenial in short order, in any case.

“We have heat cycles,” she announced afterward when everything was feeling very warm indeed. Elizabeth turned to look at her with wide eyes. All right, maybe a little bit more lead up would have been better. Still, Elizabeth _had_ confided her reproductive troubles with Shinarashi. Shinarashi felt entitled to a certain level of reciprocity. Besides, who else could she tell? Andrew-kun was practically a brother, but he was still a man.

“We have heat cycles,” Shinarashi repeated. “Not exactly like foxes. We still keep our minds. I mean-- at the start we keep our minds. The main three days it’s a little shakier, so Norrington-sama would be a problem, but before -- as long as we went away, away, out of smell range away, it would be fine.”

“You are a lightweight and I have not had enough rum for this conversation. Keep talking, but--” Elizabeth tapped her cup and hopped off her barrel. Then she reached out and braced her hand against it. “Wait. James isn’t human? So that’s where that green fire came from. Huh. I could strangle Jack for not being surprised and not telling me.” She shook her head. “Carry on.”

“It’s every fifty years, give or take.” Shinarashi carried on as she was bid. “I mean, the average kitsune life span is nine hundred years, with an even millennium as the upwards limit. If we had kits the way you have children there would be-- so many kitsune. Kitsune everywhere. It’d be a problem.” Wait, where had she been going with this? Oh, right. Shinarashi finished the rum in her cup.

“So when I woke up after Numair-- after he changed my memory, I was in heat. But now he’s dead and I’m not anymore so he just-- he made me in heat and he made me happy about it. He didn’t even ask my opinion, not the he paid any attention to my opinion when I was saying I didn’t want to kill people anymore. I don’t want to have kits with a, a, a, genocidal maniac. I’m not even sure I want kits with Benjamin, who I actually like. Am I going to drag a baby around on ship? Do surgeries with a cradle in the cockpit? No.”

Elizabeth had reclaimed her barrel. She passed Shinarashi her original cup, refilled. Somewhere Elizabeth had found a metal mug like the men used for their tot. It was probably the measuring tot mug. The cook was going to be so angry. Shinarashi still set Elizabeth’s old cup beside her and took her cup back.

“And then-- baby kitsune can’t really control their powers until they’re-- fifteen, sixteen? How am I going to keep that secret? I can’t. But did Numair ask?” Shinarashi pursed her lips together. Her eyes were burning again. She did not want to start crying. She was probably going to. 

“Don’t take it personally,” Elizabeth advised. “ _Take it from me_ , Governor’s daughter, that’s just how men are. I mean, Will wasn’t. That’s why I loved him. He always met me half way. But-- as a rule, right? They figure whatever makes them happy is what makes you happy and,” Elizabeth made a broad sweeping gesture with the hand not holding the metal mug. “James isn’t bad. If Will had not have been there, it definitely would have been James, but even James, every once in a while-- He gets these ideas in his head of how things are and that’s it. That’s how it is. You can shout yourself hoarse and he's not going to move.” Elizabeth thumped her free hand on the barrel for emphasis. “I really didn’t expect the whole ‘wedding present--’” Elizabeth made something between a hiccup and burp “--to work.”

Shinarashi leaned sideways onto Elizabeth’s shoulder. Elizabeth was great. How had she not seen this before?

The door – which could be removed along with the entire wall during a beat to quarters – opened. Benjamin poked his head in. 

“Shianarashi, are you almost done-- are you drinking?”

“This,” Shinarashi announced, drawing herself up straight, “is the meeting of the ‘We Killed Our Husbands to Win the War’ Club. And as you have _not_ killed your husband to win the war, I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

“You’ve both been drinking. The Commodore is going to _hang me_.”

“See?” Elizabeth asked, shoving her shoulder against Shinarashi and spilling both their rum in the process. “The Commodore is going to hang him--”

“Shhhhhhhhhh,” Benjamin hissed, slipping all the way inside and closing the door behind him. “I mean it. You’re both going to get me in heaps of trouble. Let’s just-- get you both in a hammock. Your-- womanly constitutions needed a nap, or what have you.”

“Womanly constitution?” Elizabeth demanded hotly as Murtogg gently guided Shinarashi off her barrel. The empty teacup fell to the deck and shattered. “Oh.” Elizabeth thought about it. “We’ll say it broke in the battle from – canon fire.”

“I can’t lie,” Shinarashi argued.

“I’ll take care of it,” Benjamin promised, “just keep your voices down.” Benjamin got both women poured into Shinarashi’s hammock and drew the surrounding curtain closed. Norrington had experimented with doors after Shinarashi’s transformation, but after the third overzealous sailor had been thrown bodily through said door, he’d shifted back to curtains. Benjamin had no idea what a demon with a hangover was like, but that was the problem of whoever crossed those curtains.

Murtogg quickly rinsed and dried the surviving teacup. He picked up the pieces of its fallen brother, and then double-timed it as quietly as he could to Norrington’s cabin. He put the intact teacup away and then dropped the pieces of the shattered teacup on the floor, as if one teacup had miraculously fallen out of the cupboard and left the others unscathed. He opened the cupboard door for good measure. One of the cups was chipped. Murtogg debated back and forth. 

Then, deciding it was chipped already, Murtogg smashed it against the shelf between the cupboard and the floor. He mouthed “sorry” at the broken cups. Then he scarpered out before anyone could be the wiser.

* * *

Norrington rounded up his ships and the _Justinian_. He set course for Kingston. If Gloucester was victorious, he would be able to turn over his two prizes and report. If Gloucester had fallen, he would be in position to retake the city. He passed the watch to Pellew at the sounding of the bell.

Norrington damn near fell down the stairs to the poop deck. Being on a Navy ship invigorated him physically, but emotionally he was knackered. Gillette taunting Numair into blind fury and using himself as bait to drag the Archmagus into position had not been the intended strategy. Norrington had managed to keep Gillette from getting electrocuted with necromantic lightning, but there had been several misses far too near for Norrington’s liking.

Norrington opened the door to his cabin. The cupboard was open. One teacup was smashed against the credenza, and another shattered against the deck. He must have forgotten to latch the cupboard. He was lucky only two had fallen out when the door had sprung open. Norrington closed his cabin door. Then he closed the cupboard and latched it.

It was Groves’s set, kept in Norrington’s office for safekeeping. Passed from mother to daughter for generations. Theodore had been the first generation with no sisters. The set had become his. All of the remaining cups had smooth rims which meant one of the shattered cups was the chipped one. Theodore’s favorite. How could he have not latched the cupboard?

The smoke that had been burning his eyes since the battle became sharp. He felt the hotness of tears slip past his control. He made a gasping wet noise through his nose. Norrington pressed his right hand tightly to his face to muffle the sound. With his left he groped to the side, falling to his knees. He pulled his pillow forward and pressed it tightly to his face to dampen the noise. The dam was broken, there was no containing the spillway now. 

It was just a stupid cup. Theodore’s cup, Theodore who could be alive, Theodore who could be dead, and Norrington had sent him there, either way. Gillette was on the _Surprise_ , Captain, more than the Irishman had ever dreamed for all he played up being French, but far away all the same. And even if Black were still alive, somehow, he did not dare seek solace in Andrew without risking getting them both killed. Killed like William Turner, killed like Peter Atwood and David Corwin, like so many others. They’d ended these three years in victory and they’d lost all the same.

Norrington keened into the pillow, knowing no one could hear, and wished fervently that he could be anyone else.

* * *

Gillette took back the watch after both dog watches had passed. He watched Midshipman Daniels trade out the candles in the lamps. When he got to the last lamp on the stern, Gillette held up his hand.

“I’ll do this one,” he said. Daniels nodded and handed over the candle. Gillette opened the lamp catch. He lit the new candle with the stub of the old, then blew out the stub. He rocked the stub in its holder, then pulled it free.

It wasn’t a prayer candle and Gillette wasn’t Catholic anymore. 

Still, as he placed the fresh candle inside and closed the stern lamp catch, he whispered, “do be all right, Theodore.”

* * *

Kingston was at peace. Repairs were proceeding apace, the sound of hammers and saws filling the air. Theodore wasn’t waiting for Norrington when he arrived. One of Gloucester’s men was instead.

“Admiral’s compliments, sir,” the young man said. “He’s awaiting your report in his office sir, but in the mean time, he wants your Doctor at his hospital. Lieutenant Groves – he’s not doing well.”

Norrington’s stomach clenched. He nodded sharply at Pellew, who moved at double pace to the lower-deck stairs. The Commodore followed the lieutenant along the docks. He met Gillette on the way. The Captain’s hands were clenched together behind him. 

They made their report to Gloucester about the fall of Tortuga as if Theodore’s status was not an unknown at the hospital. The rumors would spread among the fleet, so Norrington told Gloucester the truth about the fox-fire that had destroyed Numair’s drones. He let his eyes turn gold and his talons grow to show the veracity of his claims.

Gloucester swore viciously. “How the Hell do you get yourself into these situations, James? Any other man, any other at all, but it’s always you.”

“I can only conclude that I am paying off my bad karma at a vastly accelerated rate,” Norrington quipped.

Gloucester shook his head. “I’m sending you home with the captured fleet. The rest of us can hold the line against piracy creeping back around the Horn. Your father’s leading the joint task force from your memo last year. I don’t know if they’ll send you off to him or land you, but-- That’ll be the Admiralty’s call. It’s been an honor serving with you, James. Terrifying, not an experience I’d ever want to repeat, you bloody madman, but an honor nonetheless. Go, now, see to your man.”

* * *

True to the good doctor’s form, there were assorted individuals scrubbing every inch of the hospital by the time Norrington and Gillette arrived. Groves had a sheet covering his right side from neck to the end of the mattress. His left side was a seething mass of maggots from his cheek to his knee. His arm stopped just above the elbow. 

“Got spoiled, sir,” Groves slurred. Clearly Shinarashi had already dosed him with her potions. “Forgot this could happen.” The stump of an arm twitched. 

“I said ‘decorously wounded,’” Gillette said sternly. “You can hardly claim this leaves you the handsome rake.”

“Women like scars. ‘Mm handsomer than ever.” Groves smiled wanly. “We won. That’s what’s important. I’ll be up-- well, once the bug-boys do their job -- up in no time.”

Norrington allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “I will hold you to it, Lieutenant.”

* * *

Once Groves had been sunk peacefully into unconsciousness, Norrington returned to the _Stargazer_. Elizabeth was on the larboard rail, watching the reconstruction. Norrington approached the rail on her right. He told her the brief outline of Gloucester’s orders, omitting the details of what the Pacific fleet was engaged in. Elizabeth was not Navy, after all.

“I doubt that they will send me back. With piracy so sharply curtailed, there’s no need to have the Port Royal detachment in addition to Gloucester’s. I imagine Marks and Welks will be sent home as well.” Norrington pressed his lips together. “I highly doubt my father will want me anywhere near his fleet. I will most likely be landed for want of work." Norrington shook his head. Gillette would be the first to be struck. Norrington had no idea how he was going to break the news. What a fine reward for saving them all. "I can’t quite imagine leaving the Caribbean. It’s been my longest posting. It’s almost home. You and your father in particular.”

“I’ve been considering it,” Elizabeth admitted. She tapped her nails on the wood. “Port Royal was always about Will. Even from the first crossing. I’m not sure I can live here without him. Anamaria wants to see London, and the good Captain does owe her a dress, somehow. Perhaps we’ll come along.”

“You are, as ever, welcome, Mrs. Turner.” James reached out and, gently, covered her hand in his. “We all have our ghosts to elude.”

* * *

In the water below Tortuga a block of ice had been steadily melting. At last, a large chunk cracked free. Then another. And another after that, until the block shattered.

A great ship rose with the floating shards. It was covered in barnacles along every surface, even the sails. Those that crewed it were more fish than men.

The ship broke the surface of the water. Waterfalls sluiced off every surface, running through portholes and tumbling off of guns the like of which no man had ever seen. Then the vessel turned and began sailing steadily south-east.

* * *


End file.
